
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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Shell ^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


























“THE STORY 


OF A CANON” 


BY 

/ 

BEVERIDGE HILL 




(oo 5-3-0^ 


i 


BOSTON, MASS.: 

Brena ipublisbin^ Company 

COPLEY SQUARE 
1895. 




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COPYRIGHT 1805, 

BY 

ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


The Story of a Canon. 


CHAPTER 1. 

On a rocky plateau, a little back from the 
mountain road, climbing through one of the most 
picturesque canons of Colorado, stands an old- 
fashioned two-story brick house. The white 
gables and red walls, outlined with the distinctness 
of a statue against the gray rocks, stand out clear- 
cut and conspicuous in their rocky niche. 

In the immediate background terraced moun- 
tains tower in rugged grandeur three thousand 
feet ; in the canon below nestles the red-roofed 
village of Hopetown, while around in changeless 
majesty and silence sweep the eternal hills. Not 
of mediaeval ages do these battlemented fastnesses, 
with their defaced, shattered walls, strangely 
rounded projections and castle-looking ruins, 
speak, but of primeval times. Cup-like hollows, 
flower-filled, brighten the sombre grandeur to-day, 

straggling lattice-work of bush and vine soften the 
1 


2 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


wild rifted sides and yawning chasms, but signs of 
long-ago convulsions, and Titanic force in tortured 
writhing, everywhere oppress with speechless 
wonder and awe. 

A rugged setting for human homes, yet homes 
are there, and gentle hearts nestle in this mountain 
eyry. Love and happiness, like wild flowers, 
bloom on the scantiest of soils, making glad the 
waste places of earth, while overhead in perpetual 
benediction smile the blue skies and sunshine of 
Colorado. 

Many years before the tide of western emigra- 
tion had set in. Brave hearts, tired of the constant 
struggle to make homes in the far East and 
achieve independence, had gone out from the old 
narrow life of the poor to seek a wider one beyond 
the. horizon. Indian-like, the proud poor man 
seemingly must ever travel westward before the 
march of civilization. Filled with hope and 
courage, like the Pilgrims of Plymouth, these 
early path-finders went forward into the wilder- 
ness, not knowing what would befall them there. 

Who has not read of the dauntless pioneers of 
the early sixties, of their hardships and perils as 
they crossed what was then the Great American 
Desert in their canvas-covered wagons } Behind 
lay their house of bondage, the Egypt from which 
they had fled ; before stretched Canaan, their land 
of promise. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


3 


The noble declaration that “ life, liberty, and 
the pursuit of happiness,” was the inalienable 
right of every human being, was fast becoming a 
dead letter for the poor man in the East ; and these 
brave pioneers of early days once more sought to 
re-incarnate the immortal truth. And they did. 
No freer, more independent, happier race than the 
miners of Colorado have ever lived. They had not 
only the right to liberty and happiness, as all men 
have, but they had also the power, the opportunity 
to possess their divine birthright. 

Nature’s treasure-houses, filled by the great 
Father for His children long ages before, stood all 
around, waiting for the keys that would unlock 
their vaults. In the hands of these restless, 
ambitious wanderers were the missing keys. 
Pick-axe and shovel, hammer and drill, untiring 
industry, patient perseverance, self-sacrifice, fitted 
well those ancient locks, and at their repeated 
touch the granite doors gave way. 

Wealth, freedom from care, broader, fuller life, 
were within possible reach of the poorest. 

Who could wonder at the fascination of this new 
industry ? The same heart beats under broadcloth 
or corduroy; the same motive powers control 
humanity the world over; the same desires possess 
miner and millionaire alike. A Rothschild and an 
unknown prospector on a mountain side differ in 
degree only, not at all in kind. 


4 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Steadily flowed the tide of emigration westward. 
Wave after wave swept up the wild, lonely canons, 
carrying on their bosoms their human freight. On 
the crest of one of these a few enterprising men 
were carried into the heart of the hills, and stranded 
in the land-locked basin where Hopetown now 
stands. Here the valley widens and a town is a 
possibility, but only to men of iron will and daunt- 
less courage, up-borne by the hope of better days. 

The mighty hills rose up like huge ramparts, 
walling them in, seeming to shut out all civiliza- 
tion, the comforts that were almost necessities, 
and even communication with loved ones far 
away. 

Years passed on ; these human moles burrowed 
in their dark holes on the mountain side, with an 
industry no beaver ever surpassed. Many a brave 
heart grew weary in the long fight against heavy 
odds, and passed over the range ere his hopes 
were realized ; but still the work went on. Little 
by little the prospect holes became mines. Out- 
side capital flowed in, inside silver flowed out, and 
with gladness and faith the foundations of Hope- 
town were laid. 

As we sit by the eastern window of the old brick 
house to-day, we can see the little town, crowding, 
nestling, straggling in its narrow limits, at our 
feet. Civilization and comparative prosperity 
have come at last. A railroad winds its serpentine 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


5 


path up the valley ; churches and school-houses 
keep the beacon lights of religion and knowledge 
ever burning ; homes grow beautiful and intelligent 
under their illumination. Streets lined with trees, 
green lawns round pleasant houses, carefully 
tended beds of flowers, — even a park, gleaming 
emerald-like among the brown rocks, show the 
love of refinement and beauty in this mining 
camp. 

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. It is 
also the price of many other things ; and surely 
the people of Hopetown have paid it, to make and 
keep this oasis in the heart of the dry desert of a 
Rocky Mountain canon. 

Its windows blinking in the sun, the old house 
on its rocky ledge seems to watch the clustered 
houses below with almost human interest. Has 
the little town not grown to its present stunted 
proportions under the ceaseless supervision of 
those glassy eyes } 

Years before a lucky miner had built this home- 
like watch-tower, hauling brick across the plains 
by ox-teams to do so. Ever since it has stood, a 
familiar landmark, covered as thickly with bye- 
gone associations as an old ruin with ivy. Its life 
spans not twenty-five years only, but in western 
experience bridges from one epoch to another. 
At one end are pioneers, prairie-schooners, 
Indians, bowie-knives, semi-civilization ; at the 


6 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Other railways, electric lights, nineteenth century 
school-houses, Chautauqua circles. Between rolls 
a century of change and thought. 

Picturesque in situation as some Swiss chalet in 
the far-famed Alps, is this pioneer house of the 
Rockies. Before entering shall we glance at its 
. surroundings ? Many a millionaire has paid a 
king’s ransom for a pictured scene less fair. A 
background of gray, weather-stained rocks, with 
winding terraced walks cut in the face of the cliffs, 
and a water-fall in the distance, leaping like some 
spirit of light from ledge to ledge. To the right 
a Jet d' eati flashing in the sunlight, a belt of trees, 
a level grass-plot with bald spots here and there, 
and a low, old-fashioned fence showing signs of 
wear and tear, surrounding it all. 

In front the dusty highway, leading to many 
mines and to Silver Ridge, another mining camp. 
Across the road a grove of firs, beyond the noisy 
creek, and then again the calm majestic mountains. 

Houses, like people, sometimes possess character, 
and this house has its own marked individuality. 
Instinctively strangers in passing pause to take a 
second look, and to ask questions. Although fast 
lapsing into ruin, a certain air of distinction lingers 
round the old facade and grounds, awakening 
curiosity and interest. 

In this mountain home live the Howards, and 
here for years have my Sabbaths been spent. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


7 


Through the week, like many other men in mining 
camps, the only home known has been a cabin on 
a bleak hillside ; but Saturday evenings, at least, 
the privilege of family life has been mine. 

What a privilege this is, what a break in the 
week’s exile, only bachelors, rooming six days out 
of seven in the fifth story of a Rocky Mountain 
canon, will realize. 

Thousands of poor fellows have no such luck. 
Toiling all week in dark tunnels, danger and death 
keeping step with every movement, they hunt for 
the precious metal that for them means comfort, 
happiness, life. Saturday night they quit early, 
“ fix up ” as best they can, go down to the nearest 
town to get their mail, hear the news, and lay in a 
fresh store of provisions and ammunition for the 
coming week. This done, like unanchored men 
the world over, miners are peculiarly at the mercy 
of circumstances and their own inclinations. 
There is no place to go ; the steeet or the saloon 
are the only resorts. 

Need it cause wonder if these bachelor hermits 
of the Rocky Mountains ofttimes drift further 
and further away from home influences, religion, 
and all the progressive civilizing amenities of the 
nineteenth century They are a social race, — 
these silver miners, and must needs have com- 
panionship. The week, or two weeks’ enforced 
isolation in some distant cabin perhaps makes 


8 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


this more of a necessity, and the mannish pleasures 
of the mountain towns more attractive. In their 
colorless lives they crave society and excitement 
as men crave food ; if in their hunger, during their 
brief visits to the world of sunshine, they accept 
society as they find it, as it comes to them, who 
among us can blame them ? Which of us does more ? 

Of course success, ^‘striking it,” in many in- 
stances would change all this. The bachelor need 
be one no longer, but could make a home and live 
as God meant all men should live, with some sweet, 
pure woman for a companion, and have a fireside 
made bright with the ruddy faces of children. It 
is not good for man to be alone.” This is as true 
for the miner of Colorado to-day, perhaps truer, 
than for Adam in the Garden of Eden. Lounging 
on street corners, treating in saloons, rattling dice 
and other kindred amusements, lose their fascina- 
tion, as a rule, when a man knows that somewhere 
eager ears are listening for his coming footsteps, 
and a loving welcome awaits him. 

When we first enter “ Rest-A-While,” the 
quaintly characteristic name of John Howard’s 
home, it is the close of a lovely afternoon in June. 
All day the air had been warm, oppressively so for 
the mountains, but now a breeze laden with cool- 
ness from the snowy range beyond comes floating 
down the canon, life and freshness falling from the 
slow-moving wings. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


9 


In the hall, sheltering from the flies and heat, 
lies Roland, the tawny guardian of the place ; and 
as we pause a moment in the shadow of the green- 
painted walls to caress the noble head, an unseen 
speaker calls in a sweet cheery voice, “Come now, 
children, let’s go and meet papa.” A door opens 
and the speaker steps into view. It is Mrs. 
Howard. As her husband once said of her, “A 
little brown thrush of a woman, whose songs are 
always sweetest and strongest when the shadows 
fall.” The face is singularly gentle, yet strong, 
frank and open, with lines of fine reserve temper- 
ing its open frankness, and with a gladness shining 
out of the inner depths like the gladness of a 
mountain columbine. 

“Why, Philip, when did you come down ? Glad 
to see you,” is the kindly greeting as we meet, 
and the outstretched hand and cordial clasp give 
fresh meaning to the simple words. 

“We are just going to meet John. Will you go 
with us, or are you too tired ? ” 

“Oh, no. Not too tired for that,” I answer. 
“ It is a lovely afternoon for a walk, but where are 
the children ^ Ah, there they come,” and with a 
glad cry little Marjorie’s arms are round my neck, 
her rosy mouth pressing my brown cheek with 
kisses. Marian, too, in a shyer fashion comes for- 
ward with a kindly welcome. She is another Mary 
Howard, only taller and fairer, with a flush in the 


10 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


rounded cheek like a wild rose, and the gladness 
of perfect health in every motion. The large, 
lustrous eye has the same honest, straightforward 
look as her mother’s, and out of its clear depths 
shines a soul as true and loyal. Seventeen sum- 
mers have passed over her head, but the grace of 
a simple, natural childhood has not yet departed ; 
its ways and feelings linger with her still. 

Very carefully has this mountain maid been 
reared and sheltered. The mountains, the flowers, 
the clouds cradled round some far off peak, the 
processional seasons in their varied glory have all 
lain as an open book before her reverent eyes from 
childhood. A student of nature and of books, 
with open eye and receptive mind, guided by older 
wisdom she has listened to their teachings, and 
the reward crowns the fair young face as with an 
aureole. The birds, the mountain streams, the 
winds have whispered their secrets, and ‘‘ beauty 
born of murmuring sound ” hath passed into her 
face. 


CHAPTER 11. 

With a short bark, indicative of his perfect sat- 
isfaction with the arrangement, Roland bounds 
into the road as we start, raising a cloud of dust 
with his boisterous gambols. He is a cross be- 
tween the St. Bernard and Cuban blood-hound, 
and is equally remarkable for size, intelligence and 
loyalty. No picture of the Howard family would 
be complete without him, for he is the friend of 
every member in it. 

Holding Marjorie’s hand in mine, the dear little 
lassie of five years, we begin our walk up the dusty 
canon, between hedges of quaking asp ” as it is 
familiarly called, from the peculiar fluttering mo- 
tion of the leaves. The tropical rays of a Colo- 
rado summer sun, pouring from a cloudless sky, 
fill our eyes with a fierce glare ; but the cool 
breeze tempers the heat. 

To the left of the road the mountain torrent, 
swollen by melting snows, rushes wildly on its sea- 
ward way, churning its waters into foam as it hur- 
ries on, and leaving in its wake a gleaming path of 
whiteness like snowy carded wool, far up the 
11 


12 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


canon. The scent of wild roses is in the air, and 
the clear song of the robin floats cheerily out from 
the rocks and thickets as we travel upward. 

Listen, Uncle Phil,” says Marjorie, stopping 
with upraised finger, ‘‘do you know what that bird 
says ? ” 

“ No, sweetheart, what does it say ? ” 

“ ‘ Love God, trust God, praise God.’ We sing 
a hymn at Sunday-school, and those are the words 
the little bird says in that hymn.” 

“Well, Marjorie,’^ I answer, “that’s a nice 
thought, and if our hearts were only tuned aright, 
maybe we would hear a voice everywhere prais- 
ing God and telling us to trust Him.” 

“See here,” said Mrs. Howard, just then, point- 
ing to a cluster of mountain lilies, “ what a beau- 
tiful patch of lilies, growing and thriving on the 
very edge of the dusty wheel track, almost under 
the horses’ feet. How stainless and joyful they 
look. Do they not carry a message, too, to every 
passer-by ? Trust God, and do not let the dust of 
every-day worries choke out the beauty and fra- 
grance of your life.” 

At that moment three or four horsemen with ore- 
bespattered clothes and mining canteens strapped 
on their backs, hurried past. The afternoon tide 
of returning humanity had set in homeward. 
Following in rapid succession came groups of 
miners on foot, in carts, or on burros. Where 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


13 


mines lie beyond timber line, or up precipitous 
steeps, these sure-footed climbers will carry their 
riders without fatigue and in safety. The all but 
inaccessible trail becomes a beaten highway to 
their clinging feet. 

Dozens of familiar faces and forms pass, swing- 
ing home with that long, easy stride that all moun- 
taineers have, and at last, round a sudden bend in 
the road, we catch sight of a form more familiar 
still. Both hands raised, grasping the lapels of 
his coat, his head bent forward as if in deep 
thought, leisurely striding along comes John 
Howard. The level rays of the setting sun light 
up his massive figure, as he slowly approaches 
down the avenue of dazzling glory, and we can 
scarcely see him for the radiance which fills our 
eyes and “almost blinds them with excess of 
light.” 

From the beaming look of happiness on the 
faces of Mrs. Howard and Marian, the glad on- 
ward rush of Marjorie ahead, the frantic leaps of 
Roland on his master, it is not hard to guess at 
the nature of this man, — to see he is no irritable 
fault-finder. In truth John is a good fellow, 
respected and beloved by all coming within reach 
of his personality. To know him is to love him, 
and added knowledge is but to deepen the affec- 
tion. Loyal to his friends and convictions, true 
in every fibre of his honest, loving heart to his 


14 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


wife and children, no nobler, manlier nature walks 
these canons. 

Rooted, grounded in Scotland, grafted when 
still young on the great American stock, drawing 
nourishment alike from the conservative Scottish 
past and the progressive American present, he is 
no unworthy specimen of this double-natured, 
Janus-headed class to which America owes so 
much. 

When I first met John Howard he was a young 
man, I a boy. From the first my heart went out 
to him, and as, long ago, the soul of Jonathan 
was knit to the soul of David, so was mine to 
his. The difference in our age was never felt 
by me, and if it was by him the generous nature 
was too considerate to reveal it. He was my 
ideal, and more than any one else the shaping 
influence of my life. We used to sit for hours on 
the “braes” by the sounding seashores of Scot- 
land, among the buttercups and gowans, “ the wee, 
modest, crimson tipped flower,” that Burns sings 
about, watching the ships riding at anchor or be- 
calmed on a summer sea, “ idle as a painted ship 
upon a painted ocean.” 

Many a time did I watch the honest, child-like 
soul shining out of the transparent, beautiful 
eyes, and think that perhaps if the Saviour had 
met him He would have said, as He did of another 
youth, “ Behold an Israelite in whom there is no 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


15 


guile.” Graver and sadder, with a tired, care- 
worn expression round the kindly mouth and eyes, 
much of the fun and boyish light-heartedness for 
which he was always famous crushed out of him, 
he is still the same lovable John. For twenty 
odd years has he wrestled hard with fortune, till 
the breaking of many a day over the hill-tops of 
life, but the angel of success has not blessed him. 
Week after week, month after month, all these 
long years, has he tramped through summer’s sun 
and winter’s storms, now to this mine now to that 
in quest of better luck. All day long in the dark 
caverns of earth has he toiled, amid the poison- 
ous smoke and air of the deadly giant powder, to 
bring comfort and happiness to his loved ones. 
So far it has been a hard struggle to make both 
ends meet, to clothe and educate his children, and 
care for the brave but delicate little woman 
enshrined in the inmost recesses of his great loyal 
heart. 

In the simplicity, even bareness of their family 
life, I sometimes thought the Howard home har- 
monized well with the bareness of the bleak 
canon, — the same dignity and grandeur of 
outline characterized both. Love, contentment, 
patience, carefully cultivated by father and 
mother, softened the sharp edges of privation 
and brightened the long stretches of negative, 
colorless existence. Simple joys seemed to take 


16 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


root and flourish in crevices, and on soil invisible 
to superficial eyes. 

They gather round him with eager words and 
caresses this afternoon, I, a little apart watching 
the family reunion, the least shade of loneliness 
stealing over my bachelor soul. Only for a mo- 
ment, however, does it flit like the shadow on the 
mountain’s breast across me. The cordial clasp 
of John’s hand, the hearty greeting bring back 
the sunshine, and I am no longer an outsider. A 
happy, reunited family we turn our faces home- 
ward, Roland chasing chipmunks real or imaginary 
in every thicket, Marjorie dancing like a frolic- 
some kitten at her father’s side. 

As we topped the hill overlooking Hopetown 
and “ Rest-A-While,” John paused a moment and 
looked down on the home, nestling in the green, 
rock-encircled hollow below. 

“ I never realized the appropriateness of your 
name, Mary,” he said, turning to his wife, “ as 
much as I do to-night. The long, dusty walk 
down the canon this afternoon, makes a fellow 
appreciate such an invitation.” 

“ How did you come to give it such a queer 
name I asked. 

When we first went to live there,” John 
answered, laughing, “ Mary was continually hav- 
ing compassion on wearied looking passers-by, and 
inviting them to come in and ‘rest a while.’ It 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


17 


was summer and she was outdoors a good deal, 
and saw them. They would often stop and ask 
for a drink of water, tell her how steep the hills 
seemed and how tired they were. Short-breathed 
tourists unaccustomed to climbing were her espe- 
cial care. She was always inviting them in, using 
that phrase invariably, so one day I suggested she 
put her hospitable instincts on record, and call 
the place ‘ Rest- A- While.’ That’s the history of 
its name.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Saturday afternoons, as a rule, are the brightest 
times of all the week in a mining camp. From 
distant gulches and bleak hill-sides, from log- 
cabins beyond timber line, the miners troop 
down after their week’s exile to the peopled 
valleys. Missing links are once more added to 
many a family circle. 

In John Howard’s home, that evening, jubilee 
reigned, and every heart beat with a gladder 
pulsation. 

The supper-table, though simple in its appoint- 
ments, looked cosy and home-like as we gathered 
round it, and a happier group would have been 
hard to find. In the centre of the snowy, if some- 
what coarse table-cloth, stood a large yellow milk 
bowl, filled and arranged by Marian’s artistic 
fingers with wild pink roses, bluebells and 
ferns. At one end of the table a majolica 
dish heaped high with fresh red berries from 
some lowland ranch, appealed pleasantly to more 
than one sense ; at the other the delicate green 
leaves of the curled lettuce, just plucked from 
19 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


19 


the garden, made another bright spot of color. 
Everywhere a subtle atmosphere of refinement, 
delicate and vague as the fragrance of the flowers, 
yet as consciously perceptible, surrounded one. 

Behind the simple tea-service of white china sat 
Mary Howard, her gentle face fairly shining with 
its light of inner happiness. Next her came 
Harry, mother’s little man, a bright-eyed, wide- 
awake youngster of twelve. Opposite was John, 
and by his side, closer perhaps than was alto- 
gether comfortable, nestled golden-haired, brown- 
eyed Marjorie, her face a strange likeness of his 
in miniature. At the sides of the table were 
Marian and myself, and in one corner of the room 
fast asleep lay Roland, in his dreams, even, hunt- 
ing chipmunks and fighting battles over again, 
occasionally wakened by his own bark, looking up 
with an ** ashamed apologetic” air, greatly to the 
children’s amusement. 

“Well, John, how is the mine looking.?” I ask, 
that being the question par excellence of this 
region. 

“ It looks well, Phil, first-rate ; better than it 
has ever done I believe. The last shot in the 
drift opened up a foot of mineral. If that streak 
stays with us we’re all right. Shouldn’t wonder, 
mother,” he added, turning to his wife, “ if we’d 
get to the World’s Fair after all.” A happier, 
brighter look than had rested there for many 


20 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


a day lighted up his care-worn face as he 
spoke. 

The news was so unexpected that for a moment 
there was silence, then a perfect outburst of 
joyous exclamations and questions, Harry capping 
the climax by jumping upon a chair and crowing 
like a rooster in his excitement. 

John looked annoyed. ‘‘ I shall be sorry I told 
you anything, if you allow yourselves to get so 
excited,” he said gravely. “There’s nothing cer- 
tain yet. Something may happen, streak play 
out or silver go down, and then all this feeling 
will make the disappointment harder to bear. 
Don’t build your castles too fast, and don’t say 
anything to people outside.” His nature was ret- 
icent, ever averse to making his private experi- 
ences and affairs public. 

“This time I hope you won’t be disappointed,” 
I said. “ You’ve earned a holiday, John, and need 
one if a man ever did. Hope you’ll get it.” 

“Yes,” was the quiet reply, “I should like to 
get out of harness for awhile.” 

“ How long is it since you had a holiday of 
more than a day or two ? ” I asked. 

“Twenty years,” he answered. “A long time 
in a man’s life, but in these mountains that ex- 
perience is but too common. If a prospecting 
miner is not lucky enough to ‘ strike it,’ holidays 
are impossible luxuries. Now,” he added cheerily, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


21 


‘‘if success comes our way we’ll make the most 
of it. We’ll have a genuine honey-moon, Mary, 
and the children thrown into the bargain.” 

Mary’s heart was in her eyes and tears of joy 
rolled silently down the thin cheek, but she said 
nothing. The thought of possible happiness, and 
such happiness coming to her dear ones, of the 
uplifting of heavy life-burdens from overweighted 
bodies and souls, unnerved her. The heart was 
too full for utterance. “ I don’t believe,” John 
went on, “ I ever wanted to go to any place as 
much as I have wanted to go to the World’s Ex- 
position. It will be the chance of a life-time to 
supplement a deficient education, and make up for 
the wasted years spent in mechanical toil.” 

This was much for him to say, and we all knew 
how deep the heart-hunger must have been for 
him to express it, as he never complained, and 
rarely spoke of his own desires. His nature was 
too unselfish for that. 

“ There’s one comfort,” added his wife, “ if we 
do go to Chicago you’ll have not only the object 
lessons there, but time and opportunity to study 
them. You won’t be so tired you can’t think.” 

“That will be a comfort,” said John smiling. 
“ I won’t be all body then. Many a time I’ve sat 
down after a day’s work, determined to study, and 
positively have been so sleepy and tired there 
wasn’t any mind left to study with. That has 


22 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


been the nightly experience for years. At such 
times I’ve crawled into bed, feeling I was nothing 
but a big hulk of an animal, and that death was 
the end of it all.” 

When do you suppose you can go if things 
turn out all right .? ” I asked. 

“Not before the middle of September,” was 
the answer, “but don’t let’s build castles till 
we’re more sure of foundations. If they shouldn’t 
materialize, the disappointment might be more 
than some of us could bear. I believe I am sick 
of the mountains ; feel like some shipwrecked 
sailor on a desert island, watching the horizon for 
a friendly sail to take him off.” 

“Why, John,” exclaimed his wife, “I didn’t 
know you felt like that.” 

A curious smile lit up his face for a moment, 
almost like a thin mask it seemed, seeking to veil 
some hidden feeling even from the watchful eyes 
of love. “Until the way out opened up,” he said 
evasively, “ I have never allowed myself to think 
much about it ; and I rather think it will be wisest 
for all of us to do the same thing. Don’t ever 
allow yourself to want anything very much, to 
count on anything, until you see your way clear 
to getting it. Marian can go anyway,” he added, 
“and be eyes and ears for the rest of us if we 
have to stay home.” 

She had been invited to visit friends at Chicago, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


23 


and her whole girlish nature was alive with eager 
anticipations. It would be her first flight from 
the home nest into the world, and the dreamy, 
poetic maiden looked forward with a joy that was 
almost rapture, to the prospect. Already her 
imagination revelled in the unknown wonders 
and beauties to be revealed. For two or three 
weeks the dear little mother had been thinking 
and planning, as only such mothers can and do, 
how to make one dollar do the work of two. 
Early and late in the short intervals between 
household duties, you could hear the ceaseless 
whirr of the sewing machine, or see the needle 
between her tireless fingers flashing now through 
this material, now through that. 

With all her simplicity and unworldliness, Mrs. 
Howard was a proud woman, and her girl must 
look as well as others in the gay parterres of 
blooming maidens in the White City. The 
friends must feel satisfied with her appearance, 
and she must feel satisfied with herself. We had 
all gladly gone under tribute, and given up some 
anticipated pleasure so that Marian’s “ outing ” 
might be perfect. Samples of inexpensive ma- 
terial had been sent for, and fabrics and hues as 
varied and almost as artistic as butterflies’ wings 
had come into our quiet, sober household. We 
had all studied and given our opinions, wise and 
otherwise, on the all important dress question. 


24 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


To-night there was another batch of specimens to 
be looked at, another council of war to be held, 
and after supper we gathered round Marian, as 
she showed us the delicate tinted summer goods, 
and expatiated with girlish eagerness over their 
varied merits. John was as interested and en- 
thusiastic as any girl graduate over the selection, 
although his masculine opinions were not always 
treated with becoming respect (he claimed) by the 
feminine listeners. It was curious, pathetic even, 
to see his big, brown hands, rough with toil, turn- 
ing over with clumsy care the little squares of 
dainty colored stuffs. Had it lain in his power, 
his wife and daughters would have been arrayed 
with the perfection of lilies of the field, and he 
would have rejoiced in their beauty, as doubtless 
the Heavenly Father would. 

These are imported goods,” said Marian, pick- 
ing up a bunch of pretty samples, “ and cost 
more.” 

“ Oh,” retorted her father, with a twinkle in his 
eye, are imported articles better than home- 
made ones } ” 

Why of course, papa, didn’t you know that } 
They always cost more.” 

I’m glad to hear it,” he answered laughing ; 
** my bump of self-esteem is consciously growing 
larger. I’m an imported man and must be 
superior to native stock.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


25 


‘‘Oh^no, John,” I interrupted, “the rule, or 
belieii^ rather, unfortunately don’t extend to men, 
only to the things men make.” 

“ Queer that, ain’t it,” he mused ; “ Americans 
resent the idea of imported men being superior, 
but the superiority of the productions of these 
very men on the other side is never questioned 
by some folks. Seems like a reversal of nature, 
don’t it } In this instance water does rise higher 
than its source.” 

“ Here’s one American, anyhow,” said Mrs. 
Howard, laying her hand lovingly on John’s 
shoulder, “ that thought more of an imported 
man than she did of a native.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Howard, thank you,” he 
answered, rising and bowing profoundly, “and 
now how much is that pretty speech going to 
cost me ? Which of these imported samples have 
you set your eye on ? ” 

“ Wait till you get a few more shots in that 
drift,” was the laughing reply, “and I’ll tell you.” 

“ When do you expect to leave us, Marian ? ” I 
asked. 

“Just as soon as mamma can get me ready,” 
she replied, with a loving glance in the direction 
of her mother. 

Mary Howard had been singularly quiet all the 
evening, with a far-away look in the eyes that 
told of a soul that dwelt apart and held com- 


26 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


munion with its own thoughts, but she returned 
the glance with one as kindly. A subtle sym- 
pathy existed ever between the two. 

I couldn’t get you ready before the end of the 
months dear,” her mother answered. “ Can you 
wait till then ? ” 

“Oh, mamma, why do you ask such a ques- 
tion } ” Marian said, with a grieved tone in her 
voice like a hurt child. “ Do you think I am so 
anxious to leave you as all that ” 

“ Of course you are,” exclaimed John, a quiz- 
zical, teasing expression lighting up his face. 
“You’re just counting the hours till you and 
your toggery can get aboard the fast train for 
Chicago. I don’t want you to go, though, till 
after the Fourth. We’ve always been together 
that day, and it wouldn’t seem right to have 
you gone ; besides I promised some of the boys 
we’d all go up to Silver Ridge on the Fourth.” 

“ What are they going to do there ? ” I 
inquired.” 

“ Oh, just have a general good time. Races, 
games, fireworks in the evening, and so forth. 
They’ve been making preparations for some 
weeks and expect to have quite a celebration.” 

“ How that little town is improving of late,” I 
said. 

“That’s what,” agreed John. “ Naturally the 
dreariest looking place on earth for a home, like 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


27 


a prison in the rocks, yet the folks that have to 
live there are doing their level best to humanize 
their surroundings, and make them pleasant. 
They’re going to build a new school-house and 
church, and have water-works and electricity.” 

“ One thing I’ve often noticed about the Rocky 
Mountain miners,” I remarked, “toil, privation 
even, don’t brutalize them as it does the poor in 
many other places. They accept the hardest con- 
ditions with wonderful patience, and keep their 
self-respect through every phase of poverty.” 

“Yes,” continued John, “and the moment 
opportunity offers for betterment of their con- 
dition, they’re mentally prepared for it ; haven’t 
lost heart, or sunk below the love of refining in- 
fluences as happens sometimes elsewhere. The 
home and family are ‘ fixed up ’ first thing, and 
they’re eager for improvements, — too eager for 
their own good oftentimes.” 

“ Perhaps the stern spirit of these rugged 
canons where the miners work,” suggested Mrs. 
Howard, “acts as a tonic, and gives them 
strength to bear up without degradation under 
the embittering effects of poverty.” 

“Well,” answered her husband, “nature is a 
great medicine we all know for sick, discouraged 
souls, as well as for tired, diseased bodies ; but not 
all men know enough to take the prescription, 
even when it is to be had free, as it is in these 


28 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


mountains. The silver miners out West, to begin 
with, are a different class altogether from the poor 
laborers of other places, — different entirely from 
coal miners, even. That’s why hardships affect 
them differently. The rank and file in the first 
place who settled here twenty-five and thirty 
years ago, were above the average, and their 
ranks are continually being recruited from a 
good class. Men broken in health and fortune, 
but representing the best blood and thought of 
the country, are constantly drifting into these 
camps. Enforced association, daily contact with 
them, on equal terms, has a civilizing, educating 
tendency on the masses.” 

“ Don’t you think the mining life of these 
mountains helps a man ‘ to look at all other men 
level ’ ” I asked. 

“Yes, I do,” he answered, “ and in that respect 
it belongs to the higher, more advanced educa- 
tional influences of the century. Not long ago a 
keen observer of our times, said, ‘there are a 
good many Americans who can’t look at a man 
level. They must look up to somebody, or down 
on somebody.’ That state of mind is excusable 
in old countries, where the false beliefs and cus- 
toms of past generations are taught and accepted 
as truth, where from childhood people are educated 
in such doctrines, but it’s not excusable here in 
the United States. It’s a step backward and 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


29 


downward towards the Middle Ages, towards feudal 
times, instead of one forward and upward towards 
the kingdom of Christ and universal brotherhood. 
But if we’re going down town to-night, Philip, 
we’d better start.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

The streets of Hopetown on a Saturday evening 
presented quite a lively appearance. Many nation- 
alities could be seen, and varied dialects heard, as 
one traveled up and down the few blocks where 
the miners met for discussion and the inter- 
change of news. 

These blocks were their Board of Trade, their 
club-house, the lobbies of a hotel whose roof was 
illumined by a diviner hand than Michael Angelo’s, 
and whose massive walls were sculptured over 
with characters more mysterious than Egyptian 
hieroglyphics. 

The one overmastering thought of the hour was 
silver, its past, present and future. On that 
theme endless changes were rung. Side-tracks of 
conversation on other subjects would be started, 
and for a few moments thought would run in 
these directions, but the mind soon returned to 
the main line, — the silver issue. That meant 
food, shelter, clothing, and until these necessities 
were provided for, the average miner had no incli- 
nation to discuss other matters. 


30 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


31 


A particularly wide-awake group seemed to 
have centered around Charlie Saunders’ grocery 
store, and as many shades of belief were notice- 
able in the talks as there were shades of men. 

Some fellow from New York, a tourist bird-of- 
passage, more gifted with tongue than with tact, 
had been sneering at the cheap money of the 
West (as he called it), and brought the discussion 
to fever heat. As we came up Ethan Allen, a 
shrewd old Yankee, was pitching into him without 
gloves. 

Cheap money, dishonest dollar, ye call jit, — 
gol darn ye, who made it cheap and dishonest ? ” 

“Machinery and over-production,” was the cool 
reply. 

“No sirree,” shouted Ethan. “Legislation 
done it. Silver never fell in value till 1873, when 
its money power was taken away and it was made 
a commodity. Try that trick on gold and see 
what’ll happen.” 

“The output of the silver mines was so great,” 
retorted the New Yorker calmly, “that in self- 
defence the financiers of the country demonetized 
it. They foresaw the financial future, — that silver 
some day would glut the market.” 

“The output of the silver mines wa’nt half so 
great as the output of human beings,” Ethan 
answered. “ If silver was increasing, so were the 
people who used it. The added increase didn’t 


32 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


keep pace with the added needs. A Solomon’s 
idea to talk of halving the money when the popu- 
lation and business is doubling.” 

“It’s all right for the fellows who’ve made their 
pile,’.’ suggested John, “only rough on the poor 
devils who are still grubbing in the dirt for a living.” 

“ Strike down silver,” Ethan went on, “ and 
gold’ll go kiting sky high in value, like the end of 
a teeter when one youngster falls off and the bal- 
ance is lost. That’ll suit the banks and capitalists 
all right, but it’ll just down the poor and keep 
them down.” 

“ Oh, well,” sneered the stranger, “ talk won’t 
make your fifty cent dollar worth any more. The 
intrinsic value will govern that, the old law of 
supply and demand, you know.” 

“ See here,” cried Ralph Ingram, taking out a 
five-dollar bill from his vest pocket, “What’s the 
intrinsic value of that paper } Not two cents, yet 
you wouldn’t hesitate to take it for its face value. 
The government’s back of it, that’s why. For the 
same reason, as long as the government is back of 
a silver dollar, it’ll be worth a hundred cents. 
It’ll never be dishonest, unless the government of 
the United States makes it so.” 

“Got any o’ them fifty cent dollars on you now 
stranger ? ” asked Ethan. 

“ No, I never carry them,” he answered, “ they’re 
too heavy.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


33 


**Too heavy be they,” retorted Ethan, ^‘gosh, 
that’s a weight makes me feel light’s a feather. 
Wish to the land I’d such a load to pack home 
every night. The feel of it would do me good. 

“ I was going to say,” he went on, If you had 
a bushel o’ them dollars Fd like to give you fifty 
cents apiece for ’em, make the trade in gold, too.” 

Evidently not enjoying the spirit of banter 
creeping into the conversation, the New Yorker 
said stiffly, “ I prefer paper always, and outside of 
the mining regions everybody else does.” 

“That ain’t so,” exclaimed some one in the 
crowd, “farmers all over like silver better. They 
usually keep more or less money round the house, 
and rats and mice can’t destroy silver as they can 
paper. Fire won’t burn it up either. Lots of 
people like it for that reason. It’s safer to handle, 
too, won’t carry disease as dirty, greasy paper 
will.” 

“In spite of all your arguments,” asserted the 
stranger, confidently, “ silver’s day as a money is 
past. The civilized world is a unit on that ques- 
tion.” 

“The small world of financiers and capitalists,” 
corrected John. “Not the great world of the 
common people. The masses haven’t been heard 
from yet, and they have as much interest in this 
subject as the rich have ; ay, more, if they only 
knew it.” 


34 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“The masses,” was the contemptuous reply, 
“ never will be heard from. They don’t understand 
this question, have neither time to study nor 
brains to comprehend it. Financiers have to think 
and legislate for them.” 

“That’s something financiers have never done 
yet,” said John quietly, “and never will till you 
get a new breed of men. Financiers think and 
legislate for themselves, for the privileged classes, 
never for the masses. Monetary laws in the past, 
all laws for that matter, have been in favor of the 
wealth owners, never of the wealth producers, the 
world’s workers.” 

“One thing’s sartin,” exclaimed Ethan, “work- 
ing people may not understand political economy, 
but they feel its effects and mistakes quicker than 
the rich, and after awhile they’ll get mad and 
strike back. Somebody’s bound to get hurt if 
things ain’t equalized more.” 

“Before things are righted,” burst in Joe 
Dubere, a wild-eyed, anarchistic sort of fellow, in 
whose veins ran the blood poisoned by centuries 
of oppression and injustice, “there’ll have to be 
another revolution. We’ll have to fight for our 
rights. Fm ready to shoulder my Winchester 
tomorrow.” 

“Oh, go soak that red head of yours, Joe. 
You’ll set fire to somebody yet,” muttered Steve 
Loomis. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


35 


“It won’t be you, anyhow, Steve,” retorted Joe, 
“you’re too green to burn.” 

“Ballots, not bullets, are Americans’ weapons,” 
interrupted John; “such questions can never be 
settled by mere brute force ; they would everlast- 
ingly have to be settled over again. Animals and 
savages fight it out on that line, but the spectacle 
is hardly worthy of imitation by civilized men. 
They have outgrown, or ought to have outgrown 
such barbarities. This is the age of arbitration, of 
reason, and the American citizen’s battle-field is 
round the polls.l' 

“ That’s so,” exclaimed Ethan. “ If things ain’t 
right in this country the people have themselves to 
blame. They’ve been sleeping, an’ it’s most time 
they wakened up if they mean to waken at all.” 

“It’s high time the. conscience of humanity 
wakened, at any rate,” said John, “especially 
Christian humanity. Wrongs and injustice to the 
masses have been tolerated too long. There’s 
something awfully wrong somewhere, and things 
will never be righted for good until there’s a 
reformation from center to circumference.” 

“Over-production, that’s what’s the matter,” 
began the stranger, “ over-production every- 
where — ” 

“Some folks think,” interrupted Ethan, bitterly, 
“that there’s over-production of human beings, 
and that God A’mighty didn’t know His business 


36 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


when He planned things. Kind o’ seems so, I 
declare.” 

I think myself,” continued the other coolly, 
“ there are too many people in the world for their 
own good, — too many poor people at any rate.” 

“ Can’t some of you wiseacres start a missionary 
society for the ^Scientific Prevention of Over- 
production.?’ said John, a sarcastic gleam light- 
ing up his eyes. It might simplify matters, and 
would certainly be more humane than starving and 
misusing the over-production later on.” 

“Be jabbers,” struck in Mike Clifford, “but 
that would be a foine society for a poor man to 
belong to. Oi’d jine it mesilf.” Mike’s large 
family of eight children was sufficient commentary 
to make the joke appreciated. 

As we climbed the steep ascent homeward, the 
electric lights of the village gleamed like stars in 
the canon below ; on either hand in mystery and 
silence towered the mountains, while above in the 
fathomless blue of the skyey roof, scintillated in 
starry splendor the far-away worlds of light. 

All around brooded “the spirit that dwells 
among the lonely hills,” dulling discordant thought 
and sound, and unconsciously bearing us to where 
beyond “earth’s fevered voices ” there is peace. 

“The mining boys on the whole are a pretty 
contented lot,” said John, as we stopped for a 
moment to take breath and looked down at the 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


37 


clustered homes at our feet. “Their lives are 
singularly narrow and restricted, and they are 
conscious of their own narrowness, but they don’t 
grumble much. The Joe Duberes are the excep- 
tions, although the world outside hears most 
about them.” 

“Yes,” I acquiesced, “their patient content- 
ment has often struck me. In a certain sense they 
are philosophers, and make the best of every- 
thing.” 

“ You bet,” answered John, “that’s what they 
do. These mountains are full of philosophers, not 
talking ones either. The ‘boys’ couldn’t make 
books about philosophy, I question if they could 
read them ; but they can and do live it day by day. 
We don’t have to go to Greece to hunt up our 
stoics. Leasers are pretty good substitutes in 
these parts. I tell you,” he went on earnestly, 
“there’s lots of fellows climbing these hills every 
day who lead lives of quiet desperation. They go 
about cheery and uncomplaining, with sealed lips, 
yet underneath their spattered overalls, cares 
worse than any Spartan fox are eating their very 
hearts out.” 

“ If we had a modern Plutarch,” I suggested, 
laughingly, “ we might have a new edition of ‘ The 
Lives.’ ” 

“You may laugh,” retorted John, “but there 
are more heroes living now in this nineteenth 


38 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


century than ever before. The only trouble is, 
the Plutarchs haven’t turned up to see them. We 
want somebody to come along in these canons, 
with eyes not only for the surface world, but with 
heart and imagination to enter into the every-day 
lives of the dumb, patient wrestlers who live in 
them.” 

“Then,” I said, “we too will have our Illiad.” 

“ Maybe,” was the reply, “ maybe when people 
get far enough away to see the true significance 
of the happenings, their real greatness, they’ll 
appreciate them enough to write about them. 
Meanwhile they’re only commonplace and trivial.” 

“Yet places and experiences,” I said, “where 
characters are fashioned for eternity through the 
patient self-sacrifice and discipline of daily toil, are 
surely more worthy of an epic than are battles 
fought for conquest or empty glory, more deserv- 
ing of notice than the conspicuous doings of fash- 
ionable society.” 

“True,” he answered, “but possibly we’ll have 
to get to the vantage ground of the next world 
before that truth will come home to us, before 
we’ll see things in their true light or estimate 
them at their proper value.” 

At the top of the ascent, just where the road 
makes a sudden bend, stood “ Rest-A-While,” the 
eastern window shining like some luminous eye 
through the gloom. Behind that eye of light we 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


39 


knew was a loving, human heart waiting for us, 
with its ever kindly greeting. 

Shall it not be so, perhaps, when we have 
climbed life’s hills, and when the morning of eter- 
nity breaks on our up-turned faces } When 
through death’s gloom, bending over the shining 
battlements of the New Jerusalem to welcome us, 
we shall see “ those angel faces smile, that we have 
loved long since, and lost awhile ” } 

At the door Mary met us, and we lingered on 
the porch for a few last words. Her week’s work 
was done, even to the homely details of a mother’s 
Saturday night, and she was, for a wonder, at 
leisure. 

My presence never seemed a restraint, indeed I 
sometimes thought they forgot my existence; so 
as John sat down I was not surprised to see his 
wife steal softly to his side, and lay a hand upon 
his shoulder. He pulled her gently down on his 
knee and put his arm around her. 

“Well, little woman, are you tired } ” 

“A little, but a night’s rest will make me all 
right again,” was the cheery response. 

“ What made you look so thoughtful at the tea- 
table to-night ? ” he asked. 

“Oh, I was thinking.” 

“I know that Mary. What were you thinking 
about .? ” 

“John,” I heard her murmur, and her voice was 


40 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


full of tears, “I was thinking what a hard life 
you have had, and how patient you have been, how 
unselfish and good to us all.” She hesitated. 
“You made me think of the fishermen on the Sea 
of Galilee, who had toiled all night and caught 
nothing, and of the watching Saviour on the 
shore telling them to cast in their nets on the 
other side, and they would have better luck. You 
have been toiling ever since I knew you on the 
ocean of life, and have caught nothing. I was 
praying the Master to pity you, too, and tell you 
where to cast in your net.” 

John said nothing, but in the dim starlight I 
could see his large hand reach up, and gently 
stroke her head as it lay on his shoulder. 

So I left them, heart to heart, spirit touching 
spirit in that strange, mysterious communion, 
which none but God who made the heart can 
understand. 


CHAPTER V. 

Sabbath morning broke clear and beautiful, as 
nearly all summer mornings do in the Rocky 
Mountains. A flood of sunshine rolled its tidal 
wave of glory over the crest of the eastern hills, 
and lighted up my room with a sudden burst of daz- 
zling light. Unlike the gradual unfolding of the 
day in lower regions — the deepening of the auroral 
tints, by slow, almost imperceptible gradations of 
color — the advent of the sun in the mountains is 
sudden and startling. 

Through the open windows came the fresh, cool 
breeze with its hints of far-away uplands of pine 
and snow, the nearer call and song of mating 
birds, the deep boom of falling water, and like a 
miniature Niagara the monotonous roar of the 
distant creek. Across the hall sounded the rip- 
ple of laughter, and the murmur of children’s 
voices. 

Everywhere a delicate harmony reigned. 
Nature’s full orchestra was in session, and the 
pastoral symphony for the day had begun. 

41 


42 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


To be alive in such a world seemed measureless 
good, and with the force of a divine instinct came 
the uplifting thought, nay conviction, — only the 
prelude here, with its infinite hints of fuller, deeper 
harmony yet to come ; beyond, through death’s 
gateway the diviner symphony, and natures to feel 
and comprehend. 

On coming down stairs I found John and the 
children already outdoors. This was their gala 
day, and father the heart of it all. His own over- 
flowing good humor was contagious, and uncon- 
sciously the whole household brightened under 
the influence of his sunny nature. To Marjorie 
he was as good as a circus, alike the maker and 
sharer of her fun. 

“ Good morning, Philip,” he called out from his 
low station in the grass, as I made my appearance, 
here we are ; play’s begun.” 

“I should judge so by the noise,” was my 
laughing reply. “ What’s your piece } ” 

It was to be an opera,” he answered gravely, 
** but we were only tuning our fiddles, hadn’t made 
our selection yet. Are you up for all day ? ” 

“ Well, I should hope so, high time, too ; must 
be late.” 

“ Oh, you’re time enough,” he answered. 
“ Must have an off day once in awhile. Large 
morning this,” he added, looking round with an 
expression of lazy, animal content. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


43 


“What a glorious tonic a day like this is/’ I 
said. “ Wish everybody could have a draught of 
it. The effect is purifying as well as stimulating.” 

“Ya,” John answered, “a day like this does a 
fellow lots of good if he has time to think about it^ 
gets him in shape to enjoy everything. Seems 
more like an anodyne to me, though, than a tonic, 
affecting one in the double way the Egyptian 
nepenthe did, soothing yet exhilarating at the 
same time.” 

“It’s the fashion,” I went on musingly, “among 
some folks, to sneer at the narrowness of the 
fourth commandment, but it’^ lots broader than 
the humanity of the nineteenth century, which 
allows employers to work their men, and men to 
work themselves seven days every week of the 
year. If the law of this country would enforce 
the fourth commandment on the broad ground of 
humanity and necessity, we’d have a better, finer 
race of men and women. Even if there were no 
other world to get ready for, six days at a stretch 
is all anybody or any animal ought to work.’' 

“ I believe that,” John agreed ; “ constant work 
and no leisure takes the heart out of a man, 
makes him like a machine.” 

“If every man, willing to work,” I said, “could 
make enough in six days to keep himself and 
family comfortably, to lay past for a rainy day, and 
could always claim the seventh as his by right, it 


44 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


would be a long stride forward in industrial 
economics.” 

“Yes,” John assented, “it does seem a shame 
to fire a fellow through the world like a parcel 
through a pneumatic tube. Little wonder if he 
comes out t’other end more like a thing than a 
man, — but sit down and take it all in.” 

It was indeed a scene worth sitting down to 
look at leisurely. From the chimneys of the vil- 
lage below wreaths of blue smoke rose and floated 
lazily upward through the clear, moveless air, to be 
speedily lost to view in the bluer effulgence above. 
To the right the foam-covered torrent of Silver 
Creek, twisting and leaping through the rocky 
gorge, hurried seaward ; to the left the jet d' eau 
glittered like diamond spray in the morning light, 
and through the green branches of the trees we 
could see the white leap of the fall over the black, 
time-worn ledges. 

Eastward the mountains still lay in shadow, the 
sun shining over, but not on them, their rugged 
sides strangely softened in the transforming light 
that half concealed and half revealed the fissures 
and scarred precipices. A peculiar suggestion of 
greenness seemed to radiate from the clefts, cloth- 
ing the barren expanse with more vivid beauty, 
and rounding the sharp outlines with softer grace. 
The effect was marvelous, almost prophetic, 
seeming to hint at a wealth of floral loveliness 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


45 


hidden in the bosom of those bleak, bare rocks, 
and only waiting the advent of some more genial 
influence to blossom into verdant beauty. The 
seeds of a floral harvest, the germs of beautiful 
possibilities lay waiting in their rocky tombs for 
the Master’s summoning voice. 

Picture of many a human life, I thought, unlov- 
able to the outward eye, harsh in outline, stern 
and forbidding in appearance, yet full of infinite 
possibilities, and under sympathetic influences 
capable of developing into unimagined beauty. 

Moisture for the mountain, opportunities for 
the man, who can foretell the result .? 

Sunday morning’s breakfast hour in the Howard 
family was always a happy experience. It was 
the key-note of a joyous day. The cares of the 
week were folded away with the every-day clothes, 
and a spirit of joyful abandonment possessed us 
all. 

It was the golden opportunity of the week for 
a closer knitting together of the threads of family 
life, and busily, though all unseen, did love’s fin- 
gers work at this task. 

The one drawback to Mary Howard’s complete 
Sabbath happiness was her husband’s dislike to 
church going. He never met the issue squarely, 
and refused to go, but the result was just the 
same, — he rarely went. His ingenuity in finding 
reasons for staying at home was wonderful, and 


46 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


worthy of a better cause. I used to think some- 
times his conscience was not quite easy as to his 
own doings. At all events he was always scrupu- 
lously careful to remove obstacles in the way of 
others going, even volunteering to take upon him- 
self household duties, so as to leave the family free 
to follow their own convictions. 

That morning, as usual, we had to leave him 
behind. 

The little church was a mile distant, but the 
long walk down the picturesque canon, that mag- 
nificent aisle in Nature’s great temple, was no 
unfitting preparation for worship. 

Plain and unpretentious was the mountain 
meeting-house of Hopetown, its walls quarried 
from the surrounding hills, its foundations skirted 
by the snow-fed torrent. No architectural beau- 
ties, without or within, adorned the simple 
structure, yet to many a Christian in this moun- 
tain valley it was a Palace Beautiful, even as the 
old church in Bedford was to John Bunyan. The 
inner light of sanctified imaginations transfigured 
the homely interior, and the eye of faith looked 
beyond the plain surroundings to the home above, 
whose walls were of jasper, and round which ‘‘the 
glory of the Lord ever shone.” 

The simple service over, we lingered for a few 
moments’ cordial greeting with the old friends, 
then turned our faces homeward. The children 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


47 


remained for Sunday-school, and Mary Howard’s 
heart remained too, but for that hour a Martha’s 
was needed at home ; and so cheerfully putting 
inclination aside, she went, as she always did, 
where duty lay. Sunday was the only day we 
were all together, and its material comforts and 
pleasures must not be neglected. 

On that day and at that hour the streets of 
Hopetown present a more animated appearance 
than at any other time of the week. Interested 
students of human nature have an opportunity, 
then, to study men and women in a modern mining 
camp to good advantage. To a superficial ob- 
• server they do not differ greatly from similar 
gatherings in towns of the same size elsewhere, 
and yet there is a difference, — enough to give 
local coloring to the scene. An air of independ- 
ence, of cheery hopefulness, is characteristic (or 
rather used to be) of each face you meet. The 
despondent, discontented expression, that peculiar 
look of enforced submission to hard conditions, 
consciously realized as life-lasting, that so often 
rests on the faces of the poor, is rarely to be seen 
in mining camps. Two-thirds of the people are 
poor, very poor, but they do not know it. Even 
the old men, round whose tired feet are creeping 
the shadows of that night ‘‘when no man can 
work,” are not utterly discouraged. To-morrow, 
or the next day, or the day after, they may “ strike 


48 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


it,” and this feeling of the possibilities of the 
coming days gives an air of brightness to most 
faces. A certain buoyancy animates the neediest, 
the shabbiest of the crowd. 

Years ago Campbell wrote “The Pleasures of 
Hope ; ” living editions of that poem walk — or did 
walk — the streets of every mining camp in the 
Rocky Mountains. 

Another noticeable feature is the quietness that 
prevails. There is no element of roughness or 
lawlessness visible anywhere. Men predominate in 
the ratio of ten to one, but they are men, not carica- 
tures, men who respect themselves and respect 
others, especially women. 

Not even by a look do these groups of miners 
at the street corners ever offend the sensitiveness 
of any good woman. A young girl might go 
from end to end of Hopetown after dark, thread- 
ing her way in and out along the men-crowded 
sidewalks, and be as safe from annoyance as in 
her mother s parlor. 

This is an experience that would not be hers in 
many cities, great or small, either in the Old 
World or the New. 

If the position of woman and the respect paid 
to her are conceded to be an infallible gauge of 
civilization, and if, as this position rises or falls in 
the great barometer of the ages, men rise nearer 
the level of the Divine or sink to that of the 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


49 


brutes, then indeed must the miners of Colorado 
rank high according to this world’s standard. 

On reaching home we found John sitting in the 
kitchen, fussing round the stove, looking some- 
what worried and anxious. During his wife’s 
absence he had been fireman, and to a limited 
extent, conductor of certain domestic branches, but 
evidently the responsibility was not a desirable 
one for him. 

His face lighted up as we came in, and he said, 
good-naturedly, “Got back, have you.? Well I 
think I’ve done better than King Arthur, Mary. I 
haven’t let the cakes burn, but I’m awful glad 
your home.” With a sigh of relief he sat down 
on the nearest chair, replacing the pipe he had 
taken out of his mouth while talking. Smoking 
was a weakness of his, and on this point a decided 
difference of opinion existed between his wife and 
himself. He loved a pipe. It had been his faith- 
ful companion through many a lonely hour in dis- 
tant cabins, and through varied hard experiences. 
When alone, “in season and out of season,” he 
was very apt to fall back on his old friend. Mary 
Howard’s feelings were about as strong in the 
opposite direction. She loathed the very smell of 
tobacco smoke, and periodically he would be “la- 
bored with ” on account of this besetting sin, but 
thus far without any signs of conversion. 

“Oh, John,” she exclaimed, as she caught sight 


50 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


of the obnoxious pipe, “ how can you smoke this 
beautiful day ! It seems like profanity polluting this 
pure, sweet air with vile tobacco smoke, right here 
in the kitchen, too.” 

“ Do you smell any smoke ? ” he asked deliber- 
ately, a twinkle of fun lighting up his eyes as he 
spoke. 

Mrs. Howard looked puzzled and sniffed the air 
for a moment before answering, I thought I did 
a moment ago, but I can’t now. Maybe I have a 
cold.” John laughed heartily. “Oh, the power 
of a woman’s imagination, especially when she’s 
prejudiced about anything. I haven’t been smok- 
ing all morning in the house, so how can there be 
any smoke 

“Why, John,” exclaimed his wife in surprise, 
“how can you say so ? You’re smoking now.” 

“ What makes you think I am .? ” he inquired, in 
his quiet, matter of fact way. 

“You’ve got the pipe in your mouth,” she 
replied. 

“That’s true,” he acknowledged, “but as the 
Irishman said to the conductor of the street car 
under similar conditions, ‘ Oi’m not shmokin’ for 
all that. Oi’ve got boots on me fate too, but Oi’m 
not walkin’.” 

Mary joined in the laugh at her own expense, 
then turning to me said gravely, “I once read 
that much may be made of a Scotchman rf 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


51 


caught young, but I didn’t catch him young 
enough.” 

“That’s what’s the matter, Mary,” was John’s 
reply. “You ought to have caught me when I was 
a baby and brought me up to suit yourself. 
Wouldn’t I have been a model t ” 

“ You wouldn’t have thought so much of a dirty 
old pipe if I had,” she retorted. “Why, Philip,” 
Mary went on turning to me, “he handles it with 
as much tenderness, reverence even, as a baby or 
a Bible.” 

“Just listen to that,” John said, “calling my 
cherished cutty, that I’ve spent years trying to 
color, a dirty old pipe, and after I’ve stayed the 
best part of the forenoon in this roasting oven of 
a kitchen to please her.” 

“Your a dear old John,” she said, laying a 
kindly hand upon his shoulder, “ and I’ll try and 
put up with your friend for your sake. Now you 
had better go out in the yard under the trees and 
— no — I won’t say it, — .” 

“ Oh yes, do,” he said ; “ I know what you were 
going to say all right. You may just as well be 
honest, and confess that you’re changing your 
mind about smoking, —getting to like it. In vour 
heart you want me to smoke, only you’re afraid of 
seeming inconsistent. That’s ‘the bugbear of 
little minds,’ Emerson says. Show yourself great. 
Have I your consent to smoke ? ” 


52 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


John, I wish you would leave the kitchen,” his 
wife exclaimed. 

‘*Give me a match first,” he said, his eyes danc- 
ing with fun, “ and shake hands won’t you ? When 
we have that mill-run I shall expect you to give 
me the finest meerschaum you can buy in Chicago. 
You won’t be able to speak of the dirty old pipe 
then.” 

Leaving Mary to get dinner, we went out as she 
had suggested into the yard under the trees, and 
threw ourselves on the grass, John of course 
lighting his pipe. 

*‘Did you have a good sermon this morning, 
Phil.^” he asked. 

Yes, we had; I think you would have liked it. 
Why don’t you go to church, John ^ It would 
make Mary so happy.” 

‘‘I know,” he answered, ‘‘and yet I just can’t 
go ; would feel like a hypocrite if I did.” 

“ Why would you feel so ? ” 

“Well,” he replied, “to tell the truth, I don’t 
believe much in churches. They never do me any 
good.” 

“Yet you believe in Christianity, do you not } ” 

“ Certainly, as Christ taught it and lived it, but 
that’s a very different thing from the Christianity 
of the churches of to-day. They are great organ- 
izations, finely equipped with all the mechanical 
aids for propagating the truths they profess to 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


53 


believe in ; they are exclusive social clubs and 
cliques ; but they are not assemblies of people 
animated by the spirit of Christ, governed by His 
principles, and met like children of one common 
Father for worship. The spirit of the world, of 
the Hindoo idea of caste, is as much there as in 
the outside world, and a fellow looks for some- 
thing different.” 

‘‘ I remember when you went to church regu- 
larly,” I said, “and seemed as much interested in 
the truths taught there as any one.” 

“ Fm as much interested in them now as I was 
then,” he answered, “perhaps more, only they 
come to me through different channels.” 

“ Don’t you think the church is the divinely 
appointed channel for spiritual truths to flow 
through.?” I asked. 

“It was designed to be, undoubtedly,” he re- 
plied, “ but it’s got so clogged up with earthliness, 
that the waters of Christ’s truth have hard work 
getting through.” 

“What happened to cause such a change in 
your views and habits about such matters .? ” I 
inquired. “Was it a sudden conviction or did it 
come gradually .? ” 

“ Gradually, I believe. The conscious beginnings 
date back a good many years, but they’re as real to 
me now as they were then. Long ago I spent a 
couple of years in Chicago. The best preacher in 


54 


THE STORY OF u4 CANON. 


the neighborhood of my boarding-place was pastor 
of a fashionable church, and I used to go there 
twice a day every Sunday. He was an orator and 
a thinker, but great Caesar ! I never was in such a 
moral ice-house in my life. The little religion I 
had in me was nearly frozen out. A verse of the 
Bible would keep running through my head all the 
time of the service, ‘ the rich and the poor meet to- 
gether, the Lord is the Maker of them all.’ They 
didn’t meet in that church, nor in scores of others 
just like it. The freeze-out game was worked too 
successfully. The poor weren’t in it, and weren’t 
wanted in it.” 

They could have come, I suppose, if they had 
so desired,” I said ; “no one prevented.” 

“It’s true,” John acknowledged, “there was no 
physical tangible barrier to keep them out, but the 
lines of exclusion were just as real, as consciously 
felt. You don’t need to run a barbed wire fence 
round yourself to make people feel they’re not 
welcome.” 

“A fashionable church,” he went on, looking 
thoughtfully up into the blue depths above, “a 
fashionable church. Just think of it! The very 
name is a libel on Christianity. Surely fashion 
and pride might be left at the door of such a place, 
where all meet on a common level ; yet the truth 
is, the only passport to such institutions is money, 
fine clothes, position. Lacking these, the mem- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


55 


bers have no use for you. If Christ Himself were 
to seek admittance at the door of one of these 
high-toned, religious clubs, they wouldn’t want 
Him to come in unless He had been to a fashion- 
able tailor’s ; and if they did reluctantly, for the 
sake of appearance, admit Him, He’d be smuggled 
into a back seat in the gallery.” 

Unwillingly I had to confess there was but too 
much truth in the accusation. “And yet,” I said, 
“we know there are sincere Christians scattered 
through all the churches.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” he acknowledged, “but they 
go with the crowd. There’s nothing in their 
appearance, or in their actions toward the poor 
and the stranger, to show they feel differently. 
The same air of cold conservatism surrounds them, 
and the glow kindled by the great sayings you 
have just heard is inevitably chilled, if not killed, 
by contact with your fellow-worshipers. The cor- 
dial clasp of human hands, as I passed out, the 
light of sympathy from other eyes shining into 
mine, meeting me kindly, as it were, on the broad 
footing of our common humanity, would have 
riveted every great uplifting thought with a cor- 
responding deed, would have been imperishable 
nails to fasten them in place.’* 

“A good deal of this reserve and seeming pride 
may arise from thoughtlessness,” I suggested. 

“Possibly, but it hurts just the same, makes a 


56 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


fellow crawl into his shell and get out of the way 
as quickly as possible.” 

“ I am sure the doctrines preached from the 
pulpits are thoroughly Christian,” I said, “whether 
people carry them into practice or not. A nobler, 
better equipped set of men for their work than 
the ministers of the day, both here and elsewhere, 
do not exist ; and I am sure in the main they are 
conscientious.” 

“I believe they are,” he admitted, “but it’s hard 
for one man to possess character and power 
enough to raise such a dead weight as a fashion- 
able congregation. The leverage gained by his 
personality is not great enough. Besides,” he 
added, “whether ministers know it or not, they 
are terribly handicapped in their work from the 
start.” 

“ In what respect.^ ” I inquired. “ Men of ability 
in that profession are well taken care of these 
days. They have no cause to worry over the 
cares of this life like most men, but are free to 
follow their own best instincts.” 

“Are they } ” he asked musingly. “ Seemingly, 
I know they are, but how is it in reality.? Aren’t 
ministers expected to a great extent to preach to 
suit the people who pay their salaries ? They’ll 
allow him so much latitude, but he mustn’t go 
too far ; mustn’t be too radical in his Christian 
views or practice.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


57 


“Don’t you think most ministers have the cour- 
age of their convictions, and will speak out their 
inmost thought if they are satisfied it is truth ? ” 

“Brave men are rare,” was the evasive answer, 
“and prudence often has to temper what little 
courage a man has. A wife and family dependent 
on one might make a seeming coward of the 
bravest man.” 

“ I tell you what it is, Philip,” he added earnest- 
ly, “ as some great writer has said, ‘ it is hard for 
a man to think right who has to think for a living,’ 
If some rich man or men would endow a few non- 
sectarian churches and newspaper offices all over 
the country, he would be the greatest philanthro- 
pist of the age. Writers and speakers could afford 
then to be true to their best selves. As it is,” he 
continued, humorously, “ministers and editors 
ought to be either John the Baptists devoted to 
celibacy, and capable, if necessary, of living on 
locusts and wild-honey, or — millionaires.”^ 


CHAPTER VI. 


The event of every fine Sabbath afternoon was 
a walk, or ramble rather, over the hills. That 
afternoon just as we were setting out for the 
customary stroll and climb, Mr. and Mrs. Spense, 
from Hopetown, made their appearance. They 
were old neighbors, full of the genius of hos- 
pitality themselves, and although interfering with 
our plans, not unwelcome. 

Spense himself was one of the characters of 
the place. To be appreciated you had to know 
him, and he had to know you, for to a stranger he 
was not at home. 

A large man, towering like Saul among the 
people,” long-limbed, long-armed, and with a 
leisurely stride in keeping with his general 
make-up, he was a conspicuous figure in the 
streets of Hopetown. Had a stranger over- 
taken him on a road, not an easy thing for an 
ordinary mortal to do, his face would have come 
upon you with a kind of shock. It did not seem 
to belong where it was. The face of a boy with 
the expression of a boy, and as round and smooth 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


59 


as a cherub’s — there seemed to be a misfit some- 
where. A second look, however, showed this was 
no boy. Underneath the juvenile, innocent ex- 
pression, the face was seamed all over with lines 
of shrewdness and calculation. Superficial ob- 
servers of humanity might occasionally try ex- 
periments with this human enigma ; — a first 
experience was usually enough. 

The centre of the universe to him had always 
been a woman : first his mother, now his wife. 
Round her his thoughts, affections, schemes (and 
they were many) revolved, and if Molly were well 
and happy, the wheels of his world were running 
smoothly. 

‘‘Going out, were you.?” was his first saluta- 
tion, pitched in a curious, falsetto tone, as we met 
at the gate that afternoon. “ I guess some of you 
folks will have to content yourselves to home for 
this shift. I’m fair beat out climbing that hill, 
an’ Molly’s worse than me.” 

“ That’s all right,” responded John, cordially. 
“ Come right in. We’re glad to seie you. It 
don’t make any difference whether we take a walk 
or not. The young folks can go on without us.” 

“ Golly, aint it hot though,” Spense said, tele- 
scoping his long, loosely-jointed frame with a sigh 
of satisfaction into a low chair, and mopping his 
hot face energetically. 

“ I’m real sorry we interrupted your walk,” 


60 


THE STORY OF A CANON. ' 


began Mrs. Spense, apologetically. ^‘The children 
will be so disappointed.” 

I ain’t a bit sorry,” exclaimed her husband. 

The kids will be all right, like as not have a 
better time without them ; and,” turning to us 
with a facetious grin on his good-natured face, he 
added, “ you don’t have a chance to entertain us 
every day.” 

“ Don’t worry about the children, Mrs. Spense,” 
Mary responded pleasantly. “They’ll get inter- 
ested in outdoor sights, and forget all about us 
in a few moments. Now let me take your things 
and make yourself comfortable.” 

“ Molly and me got kind o’ lonesome,” Spense 
went on, “so thought we’d take a walk; but gee 
whiz ! it’s a day’s work to climb that hill in the 
heat ; makes a fellow sweat like a horse with a big 
load behind him. Guess we’re growin’ old, that’s 
what’s the matter. Ten or twelve years back I 
never noticed that hill no more than nothin’, — 
used to go up it like a colt.” 

“ Now,” •interrupted John, “when you get to 
the bottom you think about it. Bad sign.” 

“ Ya’,” acquiesced Spense, “streak’s playin’ out 
on me. I’m awful sorry to feel that I’m growin’ 
old, Mrs. Howard, aint you } ” 

“Must we feel old.!*” asked Mary. “Some 
one has said, we’re just as old as we feel. I be- 
lieve that, and as we. can control feelings — ” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


61 


You think,” suggested her husband, we can 
put a spoke in time’s wheels so they won’t go 
round.” 

“Yes, to some extent,” laughed his wife. “As 
we’re beginning to go down hill now, it would be 
a great thing if such an idea were practical, and 
I think it is. Time ought not to touch a spirit, 
certainly not -to age one, and in a certain sense 
bodies don’t count.” 

“ They don’t, eh } ” queried Spense, in open- 
eyed astonishment. “ If you were a man, Mrs. 
Howard, I should say you were of’n your base. 
My body is all that does count with me. When 
that’s all right. I’m all right, you bet ; feel as if I’d 
like to live a thousand years.” 

Mary said nothing, but her silence evidently 
did not arise from concurrence with this senti- 
ment, rather perhaps from a feeling that argu- 
ment would be useless waste of time, possibly 
of temper, so long as those differing in opinion 
looked at the matter from such opposite stand- 
points. She was a woman who cared nothing for 
the last word, if no principle were involved, and 
"had a very keen sense of “ the eternal fitness of 
things.” To have discussed certain subjects ex- 
cept at the proper time, and under proper condi- 
tions, would have seemed to her sensitive nature 
a species of profanity. 

It is not always unwise to wait for the more 


62 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


convenient season to discuss the deeper things of 
life, but often the finest wisdom. 

The little snag in the conversation was removed, 
by John asking, in his pleasant, matter of fact way, 
“ How is Hopetown getting along these days ? 

Oh, kind o’ slow,” Spense answered. “ Times 
aint what they used to be. A fellow’s got to 
rustle awful hard to get both ends to meet these 
days. The way some of the boys have to settle 
down to the collar, and work just to keep soul 
and body together, is enough to make a good- 
tempered horse balk, let alone a man. And 
yet what can they do ? A miner’s a good 
deal like a sailor. After a sailor’s been on a ship 
two or three years, he’s no good on shore. After 
a man’s mined for awhile, he’s no good on earth 
outside the mountains.” 

That’s true,” answered John, “I’ve often 
noticed it. There’s a certain fascination about 
mining that holds a man to it, and v/hich to a 
certain extent unfits him for anything else.” 

“ What is the fascination ” inquired Mrs. 
Howard. “ It seems such a hard, unnatural life, 
working all day in a dark hole, and yet men doom 
themselves to it, and from choice cling to it as 
long as they live.” 

“ I’ve often wondered myself what the attrac- 
tion was,” John said, thoughtfully. “For one 
thing it’s an independent, manly kind of a life ; 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


63 


even day’s-pay men here have different feelings 
from the same class elsewhere.” 

*‘Yep/’ exclaimed Spense, “a miner in this 
country don’t have to take no man’s lip. A 
leaser’s his own boss, and if things get out o’ 
whack at the mine, even day’s-pay men can fall 
back on a lease of their own.” 

“Then,” continued John, “the element of hope 
connected with all mining transactions attracts 
many men. If the present don’t suit a miner, he 
don’t have to live in it ; in his mind he always has 
a future. His ‘ castles may be in the air,’ but 
their foundations are in the earth, and that makes 
them seem substantial to him.” 

“Another thing,” I suggested, “no matter how 
shabby 'a fellow’s clothes get in the mountains, 
he doesn’t lose his self-respect. Everybody knows 
the reason, or at least tacitly gives him credit for 
one.” 

“He’s been putting his money in a hole in the 
ground,” laughed John, “instead of on his back, 
and of course that stands to his credit with his 
fellowmen. Why not ? Makes him feel all right 
with himself, too, — like a landed proprietor if 
his coat is out at the elbow.” 

“In the East,” I continued, “it wouldn’t, 
couldn’t be so. Conditions are not so elastic 
there, shabby clothes and surroundings are more 
of a disgrace. Here what a man is, not so much 


64 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


what he has, stamps and rates him. His inherent 
manliness, or the want of it, is more quickly 
noticed, too.” 

You bet,” muttered Spense, “a fellow’s got to 
stand in his own shoes in this camp ; can’t borrow 
his father’s or his grand-father’s to get extra 
footin’.” 

*‘The very element of uncertainty,” John went 
on, “though in itself a misfortune to the mining 
industry, socially considered is a blessing. No- 
body knows what the next shot in the mine may 
open up, how soon the rich man’s possessions may 
be within reach of his poorest neighbor ; so class 
distinctions, those ceaseless irritants, are not so 
marked.” 

“There’s one thing I’ve noticed,” said Mrs. 
Howard, “the poor don’t feel their poverty here 
as they do East, consequently there’s not the same 
bitterness.” 

“Oh, this country’s all right,” exclaimed Spense, 
“ the best I ever struck, if we can only get free 
coinage and a decent ratio, but I ain’t here for my 
health. I’d like to make somethin’ and with 
silver down to eighty there ain’t much show.” 

“Not unless you strike it,” John admitted. 
“You can’t do much ‘dead work’ at that price, 
sure, without running behind.” 

“And yet these dog-on’d eastern ignoramuses,” 
said Spense, angrily, “ ’ll tell you it’ll pay to mine 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 65 

silver at thirty cents an ounce. Great Scott ! I 
wish it would. They never take the ^ dead work ’ 
into account at all.” 

“ What do you mean by ‘ dead work ? ’ ” in- 
quired Mrs. Howard. “ I think I understand the 
phrase, but Tm not quite sure.” 

‘^Well,” returned her husband, “in plainer 
words, developing. You know silver is not found 
everywhere in a mine, and sometimes you have 
to blast through hundreds of feet of non-paying 
rock before you find it in paying quantities and 
quality, or even at all. This is what miners call 
‘dead work.’ When they do find it, they ‘strike 
it.’ It requires lots of staying power, financially, 
to be able to do much ‘dead work.’ ” 

“ I don’t see how poor men are able to do any 
at all,” said Mrs. Howard. 

“They couldn’t,” John answered, “unless the 
stores were back of them and stayed back of 
them. If the merchants in these mining camps 
are satisfied they’ve got square men to deal with, 
they’ll back them for a long time, and give them a 
show to get into pay before shutting down on 
them. I’ve had men keep me over a year, and 
never ask for a cent. They knew I was doing 
my level best. Just as soon as a miner ‘strikes 
it ’ he’ll begin to pay up, and if the streak holds 
out long enough he’ll pay every dollar before he 
gets through. If a leaser finds out he’s dead 


66 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


broke, that the stores won’t carry him any more 
and he hasn’t struck it, he just throws up his 
lease and goes to work contracting, or for day’s 
pay, till he gets even with the world again. I’ve 
done it myself time and time again.” 

Don’t miners often run away without paying 
up, I wonder ” inquired Mrs. Spense. 

'‘Not very often,” her husband replied, “unless 
they’re so down on their luck they just can’t pay, 
and the leeches bother them too bad. Can’t get 
blood out of a turnip, you know. I’ve known of 
very few instances of men ‘striking’ it and then 
skinning out.” 

“People outside of mining camps,” John said, 
“have, as a general thing, very hazy ideas about 
practical mining. The expense of getting the 
mine into shape is never realized. All they think 
of is the price miners get for the ore after it’s in 
sight. The years of work, the thousands of dol- 
lars sunk in the ground to get it there is never 
taken into account. There’s always a big blow 
made about the rich strikes, but the long previous 
history leading up to them is forgotten, as well as 
the many failures.” 

“What makes me mad,” continued Spense, “is 
the rubbish you read in some o’ them eastern 
papers. Folks that never saw a mine in their 
lives, that know no more about minin’ than I do 
about Wall Street, ’ll pose as mining directories. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


67 


They’ll sit in their padded chairs and write yarns 
about the silver kings of Colorado, and the easy 
life of a miner. Guess they think all we’ve got 
to do is shovel out the silver and ship it.” 

“ Miners themselves are a good deal to blame 
for these false notions,” John said. After ten 
or twelve years’ grubbing in the dirt, barely exist- 
ing, some lucky fellow strikes a bonanza. In six 
months he’s a rich man. He makes a bee-line for 
some big city, puts up at the best hotel, and 
throws money round as if it had no value, and 
had cost nothing to get. All this extravagant 
foolishness finds its way into the papers, and the 
exception is looked upon as the rule. He’s not a 
sample of the mining class, either in his way of 
making a fortune, or spending it; but he’s so 
considered.” 

Can you blame him,” queried Spense, “after 
living like a coyote for years among them hills, if 
he loses his head and runs wild for a spell } ” 

“No,” John admitted, “but we understand the 
circumstances.” 

“ That’s what I think them eastern galoots had 
better do afore they make their private ignorance 
public,” retorted Spense. “ They’d better know 
facts as they are in the mountains, and not in 
their fool heads, ’fore they print them. You’ve 
got to serve an apprenticeship to every kind of 
business before your opinion’s worth anything. 


68 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


but some folks seem to think there ain’t nothin’ to 
larn about minin’.” 

‘‘You think,” interrupted John, laughing, “they’d 
better learn the alphabet of mining before they 
try to read the signs of the times in Colorado.” 

“ That’s what I do,” Spense answered. “ I 
wish to the land some o’ them had to come out 
West and shoulder the shovel and pick for a liv- 
in’. They’d find out what it cost to mine silver, 
an’ what a miner’s life is. When they went 
home they wouldn’t look so handsome, mebbe, but 
they’d know a blamed sight more.” 

“Yes,” John acknowledged, “roughing it out 
here for a few years would be an education in 
branches not taught in the schools, and equally 
necessary for an all round man.” 

“After graduating at Harvard,” I suggested, 
“if a man would graduate in nature’s school of 
mines, wrestling with the problems of a poor 
man’s life just as the rank and file of miners 
have to do, he would be a man of broader sym- 
pathies, and better prepared to assume and under- 
stand the duties of a good citizen.” 

“Perhaps,” John answered. “We all believe, 
theoretically, that the school of poverty is good 
to pass through, but few men are advanced 
enough to voluntarily enroll themselves in her 
classes for the sake of the educational advan- 
tages to self, and possible benefit to humanity. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


69 


It takes a Christ almost to do that. Some day 
possibly this higher branch in life’s great school 
may become part of the educational system of 
this world, but not in our time. As you say, 
Spense,” he went on, “ times in this country ain’t 
what they used to be, and I’m afraid they’ll be 
worse before they’re better.” 

‘‘Dear, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Spense, “ I don’t 
see what we’ll do if they get any worse. We 
don’t much more than live now. We’ll have to 
leave.” 

“ That’s just what it’ll come to ef things keep 
on as they’ve been a doin’,” replied her husband. 
“ Ef you’re started on an inclined plane, an’ it’s 
steep enough, you’re bound to touch bottom some 
time. The financiers and capitalists tilted this 
yer plane in ’73, an’ they may tilt it again.” 

“They’re liable to,” John said ; “there’s as much 
reason now as at that time. When silver was 
demonetized in 1873 and reduced to a commodity, 
it was at a premium, and no political party, or 
petition from the people, asked for its demonetiza- 
tion. That was done in secret by a handful of 
men, and solely in the interests of the moneyed 
classes. Ever since that act not only silver 
bullion, but everything except gold has been 
gradually decreasing in value. Wheat and 
cotton have kept step with silver in her steady 
decline.” 


70 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“And yet,” exclaimed Spense, “people back 
East think the silver question is only a local one, 
a kind of side-show business.” 

“It’s no more local,” was John’s reply, “than 
money is local. We simply supply the material 
for what everybody needs, and needs more, not 
less of. The Bible says, ‘the love of money is 
the root of all evil.’ I sometimes think the want 
of it is the root of a good deal more. Make gold 
the sole standard, the only currency, you destroy 
half the money, and that means contraction, fall- 
ing prices, paralysis of business from Maine to 
California.” 

“Dog-on my buttons ef I don’t think some 
folks are jes’ mean enough to want silver kicked 
outdoors cause some other folks happen to make 
a livin’ off it,” growled Spense. 

“The masses kick their best friend out-of- 
doors when they let silver go,” John said. It’s 
the people’s money, — was long before Colorado 
was known ; in fact, Colorado was called into ex- 
istence to serve the interests of silver, not silver 
to serve the interests of Colorado.” 

“What’s the reason,” asked Mrs. Spense, in 
her mild, placid fashion, “that anybody objects to 
free coinage } It wouldn’t take anything away 
from the eastern people, would it.? They wouldn’t 
lose their homes or have any less to eat ; but it 
makes a sight of difference to us poor folks who 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


71 


have to live off it. If the miners could take their 
bit o’ ore and turn it into money, they wouldn’t 
shut it up in boxes, they’d spend it ; and that 
would help everybody.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Mary exclaimed, “miners are 
proverbially open-handed. They’d put lots more 
money in circulation. They’re not the kind to 
tuck much away in an old stocking.” 

“ The East would be more benefited than the 
West by free coinage,” John remarked, “because 
just as soon as the silver was turned into money 
by the miners, it would, as you say, be put in cir- 
culation, and would then go to build up eastern 
industries. Another thing,” he added, “by en- 
couraging silver mining, the area of country to 
be supported and improved is constantly being 
widened, and as a natural consequence the mar- 
kets for eastern goods are multiplied and prices 
made better. Instead of building up our industry 
and section of country at the expense of another, 
as it is falsely claimed we are trying to do, we are 
striving to build up our own section for our own 
benefit, it is true, but also for the benefit of a 
much larger section. We can’t help only our- 
selves, even if we wanted to, which we don’t. If 
we had ‘ free coinage ’ a miner couldn’t eat silver 
and thereby live ; he’d have to part with it before 
it would do him or his any good.” 

“ No man liveth to himself,” murmured Mrs. 


72 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Howard softly, “and I suppose no part of a 
country can either.’* 

“Financial wiseacres back East,” said Mr. 
Spense, “ claim there’s too much money in the 
country.” 

“Seems so,” John answered sarcastically, “when 
you have to pay ten or twelve per cent, for every 
dollar you borrow. That’s the reason too, maybe, 
so many people all over the world are going 
hungry, there’s too much bread to be got. A 
Solomon’s explanation that is. I wish I was out 
of mining,” he went on, “ outlook’s too uncertain 
these days. To be here as we are, dependent on 
the output of silver mines, is like living on a 
volcano that may crack any day. Crust seems 
pretty thin.” 

’ “Oh well,” Mrs. Howard said cheerfully, “gov- 
ernment will look after the mining interests. 
You’ll get more favorable legislation soon.” 

“The government, — where do you think the 
government of the United States is located ? ” 
asked John, cynically. “ If you suppose it’s at 
Washington, you’re mistaken. The centre of the 
government in this country is Wall Street, New 
York, and ‘the power behind the throne’ every 
time is money.” 

Mrs. Howard looked puzzled. “ I have always 
supposed,” she said doubtfully, “ that the govern- 
ment of the United States was ‘for the people, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


73 


and by the people.’ That was one of father’s 
favorite quotations.” 

‘‘ It used to be,” John answered, *‘but that idea 
seems to belong more to past history than 
present. It’s in the Constitution, and, theoret- 
ically, is the sheet anchor of this form of govern- 
ment ; but somehow the flukes of the anchor have 
been monkeyed with and they don’t hold. Con- 
sequently America is fast drifting Europe-ward. 
Money rules, and things ar.e run in the interests 
and for the protection of the capitalists. They’re 
opposed to free coinage, it’s against their in- 
terests, and for that reason it will be almost a 
miracle if we ever get it.” ’ 

Gosh,” muttered Spense, ‘‘ I kind o’ feel that 
way myself ; an’ if the bottom falls out o’ the 
minin’ business, might as well fall out o’ the 
universe, as far as I’m concerned. Every nickel 
I’ve got on God’s earth’s in the ground ; as fast’s 
I’ve taken the silver out. I’ve put it back in again. 
Wish to the land I’d ha’ stuck to my farm in 
Iowa, that would ha’ kept Molly an’ me out o’ the 
poor-house anyway ; but to get on another tack, 
can’t ye take a day, John, an’ go fishin ’ } Ye look 
as if ye needed it.” 

'‘Can’t just now, Spense,” was the reply. 
"Wish I could, but I have a point to make, and 
can’t spare even a day. In a few weeks, if things 
turn out as I hope they will. I’ll take a week. 


74 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


We’ll go to the Park and have a high old 
time.” 

^‘Hope they will, John,” Spense rejoined ; *‘man, 
it would do me pretty near as much good to see 
you strike it big as to strike it myself. You’ve 
had a kind o’ corduroy road to travel for twenty 
years, an’ it’s time you were layin’ by for repairs. 
You’re beginnin’ to look kind o’ seamy,” he added, 
with his usual bluntness. 

John laughed. I begin to feel seamy,” he 
said, and as if I needed rest and a general over- 
hauling. I’ve got wet so often in shafts that 
rheumatism is all through me. A miner’s life’s 
hard on a man’s constitution ; what between damp- 
ness, giant powder smoke, cave-ins and missed 
shots, he has a pretty tough time of it.” 

“ That’s what he has,” Spense answered. “ If 
any man earns his money in this world, a miner 
does. Hope we’ll get ‘free coinage’ before long, 
that would be kind of a stand-off for the life he 
leads. And now, Molly,” he went on, turning to 
his wife, “you’ll better get ready, it’s time we 
were goin’.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Spense,” exclaimed Mrs. Howard, 
her hospitable nature in arms at the proposition, 
“ don’t talk of going now. Stay to supper. We’ll 
be glad to have you.” 

“Might just at well stay,” John said. “ You’ve 
nothing to call you home — no youngsters.” 


THE STOR'Y of a CANON. 


75 


‘‘ I haven’t, eh ? ” responded Spense, getting up 
deliberately and shaking first one foot and then 
another to get the wrinkles out of the long 
lengths of his trousers, “ that’s all you know. 
I’ve got very important business to attend to to- 
night. Come, Molly, let’s go.” 

Mrs. Spense looked as if she would rather 
not, but as Spense said of himself, “ when he took 
the bit in his teeth, it want no manner o’ use 
tryin’ to turn him,” so she good-naturedly ac- 
quiesced in his decision. 

“ Come down, all of ye’, and see us soon ; bring 
the youngsters and stay all day,” was the parting 
salutation, as we escorted them to the door. 
“ Keep a stiff upper lip, boys, things’ll come our 
way some o’ these days, and then won’t we paint 
the town red ? ” 

“That’s what we will,” replied John, laughing. 
As they disappeared over the brow of the hill, 
Mary said demurely, “ I’m afraid all the obstinate 
men were not born in Scotland, John.” 

“No indeed,” was the quick response; “a 
Yankee can outdo a Scotchman in that line any 
day.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


Fastened to the trunks of two tall fir trees’ in 
the yard, a Mexican hammock swung lazily to and 
fro, swayed lightly by the ripples of the evening 
breeze like a boat on a summer sea. As I came 
out from the supper-table, the bright spot of color, 
contrasting with the somber hue of the pines, 
caught my eye with its wordless but eloquent 
invitation. Throwing myself into the meshes of 
the swinging cradle, I gladly abandoned myself to 
the spirit of the hour and place. 

The very peace of heaven seemed to brood with 
outstretched wings over this human nest among 
the hills, and, as never before, I realized what the 
divine words, “My peace I give unto you,” might 
mean. The infinite peace reigning at the heart of 
the lonely hills that night, enabled one to feel what 
“the peace of God” might be. 

Not even a murmur of that great sea of human- 
ity, which forever booms and roars in feverish 
unrest round the busy haunts of human life in the 
distant cities, reached us here in this quiet canon. 

76 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


77 


Like mighty walls the encircling mountains shut us 
in, their stupendous buttresses and rugged outlines 
looming grandly through the gathering twilight. 

Around their feet the coming shadows of even- 
ing were creeping, but the waving outlines of their 
wooded crests were still glowing in sunlight, and 
traced with startling clearness against the back- 
ground of intense, fathomless blue. 

Overhead a few clouds, like birds of paradise, 
floated in this radiant sea of “blue fire,” their 
snowy plumage flecked with dashes of crimson 
and gold ; but even their motion was suggestive 
only of rest. 

Around, the familiar sounds of earth and home 
blended into one gracious symphony of peace. 
Somewhere in the rocks a tiny rivulet deflected 
from the water-fall, made music of its own, and 
fell with a happy gurgle into a wooden trough 
near by. Indoors, the home-like clatter of dishes, 
and the sweet contralto voice of the unseen worker, 
struck a chord of fireside melody. Above, some- 
where in the dark greenery of the fir branches, a 
sleepy bird, late for vespers, awoke and flung on 
the air his liquid notes of love-born joy. 

Pacing up and down the rocky ledge overlook- 
ing the village, like a captain on the quarter deck, 
was John, in his quiet, self-contained manhood, no 
unworthy representation of the serenity sometimes 
embodied in a human soul. 


78 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


At the corner of the grass-grown plateau, com- 
manding a view of the Hopetown road, and evi- 
dently on the outlook for some one, were the 
young folks and their constant companion, Ro- 
land. 

As I dreamily watched them, noticing partic- 
ularly Marian’s fine, delicate profile, outlined 
against the primrose tint of the evening sky, the 
figure of a young man came suddenly over the 
brow of the hill. .With abound as easy and grace- 
ful as a deer, he cleared the fence and stood beside 
them. 

It was Charlie Heywood, one of our Hopetown 
boys, and almost one of the household. 

For years Charlie had been a regular visitor of the 
Howard family. As a little fellow he had brought 
his gaily painted sled for Marian to go coasting, 
and many an adventurous flight, under his guid- 
ance, had the little maiden taken over the snowy 
slopes of the frozen world. Later he had carried 
her books home from school, and helped her over 
many a troublesome stile in the path of learning, 
sometimes going ahead, pioneer-like, and blazing 
the trees of knowledge for her help and guidance. 

Now they were children no more. Insensibly 
to all of us the years had borne them to the thresh- 
old of a newer, broader life. Until to-night this 
truth had not come home to me, but as they stood 
there in the fading light, something in the atti- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


79 


tude of both struck me with a sudden sharp sense 
of pain. The absorbed intensity of Charlie’s look, 
as he held her hand for a moment’s greeting, the shy 
droop of Marian’s head, were a revelation. Only 
a moment did they stand thus, but in that moment, 
as in a mirror, was focused the possibilities of the 
future. 

Years before I had had my boyish romance, 
and buried it, as I supposed, forever among the 
hidden memories of the past. That picture startled 
old feelings into new life, and brought me face to 
face with myself. 

Unconsciously Marian had become part of the 
web and woof of my daily life, inextricably inter- 
woven with all that was best and tenderest in my 
nature. That moment’s experience had shown me 
this, had been a flashlight of inner illumination, as 
well as of outward vision. Was a power already 
drawing near that would compel me to tear this 
priceless web of human love, woven by the slow- 
moving years in the loom of time, out of my heart ? 
Or was it only an idle presentment startled into 
life by a jealous, unreasoning fear ? 

Charlie Hey wood was a strikingly handsome 
young man, with the clear-cut features of a Greek 
statue, and a figure almost ideal in its proportions. 
For years his hobby had been athletic sports, and 
intelligent, scientific training had developed and 
perfected his physical frame, till he almost seemed 


80 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


a living copy of some of the ancient sculptures of 
idealized manhood. 

A very incarnation of youth, and symmetry of 
form, what girlish heart could fail to fall under the 
spell of his power and devotion ? It is natural for 
youth to love youth. He was twenty, I was thirty- 
six. The odds were against me. 

Thoughts such as these filled and disquieted my 
mind with a bitter unrest ; the idyllic peace of the 
moment before had vanished as suddenly as the 
placidity of a mountain lake before the sweep of a 
wild storm. 

Tried by a spiritual standard, Charlie Heywood, 
to most people, was a disappointment ; but in the 
court of seventeen is such a standard set up } Do 
the maturer fruits of autumn’s thoughtful wisdom 
ever ripen in the spring.? Material well-being, 
physical culture, success in life as the world counts 
success, having a good time, were the only goals 
his eye ever saw. Impressed by his strong per- 
sonality and outward beauty, could any one won- 
der if Marian’s gentle nature satisfied itself with 
the narrow limitation .? 

The two most powerful factors in shaping a 
human soul, inherited instincts and surroundings, 
had conspired in Charlie’s case to make self the 
central pivot, on which, consciously or unconscious- 
ly, everything revolved. His father and mother 
were prosperous, worldly, Selfish people, inter- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


81 


ested only in themselves, and humanity so far as it 
affected them. Naturally their children were born 
with the same bias, and alike by precept and 
example was this principle, devotion to self, fos- 
tered. 

Superficial observers, touching his life only on 
its outward edges, might not notice this trait, for 
when the current was going his way it was 
smooth sailing, and Charlie Heywood was a pleas- 
ant enough companion, bubbling over with fun 
and animal spirits. Only on closer acquaintance 
were you liable to run against a snag, and have 
the pleasure-boat of good fellowship capsized. 
Then you discovered the underlying motives, hid- 
den like a network of veins beneath the moral 
nature ; but with even that knowledge, your admir- 
ation for the physical man made you idealize and 
forgive him. ■ We are all so much in love with 
youth, that our charity gladly drapes its faults and 
angularities with her softening folds, and we lend 
ourselves willingly to the illusion. I had done so 
myself scores of times, — how could I expect a 
young girl like Marian to do less ? especially if in 
her inner consciousness, he had stepped out of the 
clear, white light of friendship into the magical 
atmosphere of love ? 

The world of fashion in its social gatherings and 
fancy routs, often loves to masquerade in strange 
and varied costume. What is life, after all, in its 


82 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


entirety, but a long masquerade ? A hiding under 
masks of courtesy, rudeness, or hypocrisy, the real 
self. Behind the serene smiling face and reserved 
manner, may lurk spirits, faint from the hunger of 
a life-time, wounded to death by disappointment, 
or embittered, it may be, with the passions of hell 
itself. 

Till we are able to bear the light of discovery, 
God in mercy clothes our un^ymmetrical, imperfect 
natures with bodies, thus hiding even from our 
nearest, the unseemly nakedness and blemishes 
that might forever alienate their affection. Not 
yet could many of us bear the nakedness of a 
disembodied soul, or the light of that land where 
“the secrets of all hearts shall be made known.” 

As I lay thinking thus, fitting on as best I could 
my own jester’s cap and bells, the strains of the 
organ floated out through the open window of the 
sitting-room. That sound was our summons in- 
doors. Every Sabbath evening was brought to a 
close by a song-service. The group at the corner 
turned their faces houseward, and in passing took 
possession of me. 

“ Hallo, Phil ! What are you mooning there for 
all night.? ” was Charlie’s greeting; “enjoying the 
‘reveries of a bachelor,’ I suppose. Come on in 
and help us with that sweet tenor voice of 
yours.” 

“Yes, Uncle Phil, we can’t spare you,” said 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


83 


Marian, in her own gentle fashion. “We missed 
you to-night, but I thought perhaps you had your 
thinking cap on, and didn’t wish to be disturbed. 
Marjorie has been teasing for some time to go to 
you, but I wouldn’t let her.” 

“Well, we’ll go in now,” I answered, “and have 
our sing. Come on Moppet.” With a glad bound 
Marjorie seized my hand, and frolicked in-doors. 

As if the photograph were in my hand, can I 
see the details of that homely sitting-room. The 
central figure of the picture, John, sitting under 
the hanging lamp reading, the light from above 
falling full on his kind, thoughtful face ; the open 
windows framing the mountains and star-spangled 
sky, the lace curtains swelling out like wind-filled 
sails from the incoming breeze ; Mary at the 
organ playing some dreamy nocturne. 

As we came in she rose to shake hands with 
Charlie, and welcome him after her own cordial 
fashion. 

“ How is your mother to-night ? ” she inquired. 
“ I heard she was not feeling well.” 

“ Oh, she’s all right, Mrs. Howard,” he answered; 
“ been having some kind of a parrot and monkey 
time with the cook, and had to get rid of her. 
That’s all that ails her. We’re all fond of good 
things to eat at our house, and when one girl goes, 
mother has to go in the kitchen till she gets 
another. That makes her sick, she says.” 


84 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*- Don’t you help her, Charlie ? ” asked Mrs. 
Howard. 

Me ? What do you take me for ? A man’s in 
a pretty small business, to my notion, puttering 
round a kitchen, doing woman’s work. Ain’t any 
of the Miss Nancy about me.” 

Mary laughed. I don’t think my husband is 
less of a man, but more, because he helps me in 
the kitchen sometimes. His worst enemy couldn’t 
call him a Miss Nancy, and yet he’s done woman’s 
work lots of times to save me, when we couldn’t 
afford to hire help.” 

John looked up, a quizzical expression lighting 
up his face as he spoke. “ Don’t you believe all 
you hear, Charlie. If I ever did, it must have been 
in our honeymoon or for peace’s sake.” 

“ I shall never marry,” continued Charlie, till 
I can afford to keep my wife in proper style. I 
won’t expect her to go into the kitchen at all, 
except to give orders. Spoils a woman’s looks so 
hanging round a hot stove, besides making her 
cross. Does mother I know.” 

Supposing,” I suggested, ‘^your servant should 
take French leave, what then ” 

“ Of course, in that case,” he answered decid- 
edly, “ I should expect my wife to take hold, to 
fill her place till we could get somebody else. 
That would be her business, not mine.” 

Charlie, like his father, had a masterful way of 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


85 


talking, which made discussion not always pleas- 
ant, so the subject was changed by Mrs. Howard’s 
asking if they intended going to the World’s Fair. 

'‘Oh, certainly,” was the response, “all the 
world and his wife are going there. You expect 
to go I suppose ? ” 

“ It will depend on circumstances,” Mary said 
quietly. “We hope to go. Don’t you look for- 
ward with much pleasure to the idea ? ” 

“Don’t I.?” he exclaimed energetically, “well I 
should smile. Who wouldn’t want to get out of 
this old hole in the rocks, especially if he was 
headed for Chicago I’d just as soon die as live 
much longer in this half dead and alive place. As 
mother says, you don’t live here, you vegetate. I 
hate it.” 

“ It can’t be a very attractive place for a wide- 
awake, energetic youngster like you,” Mrs. How- 
ard acknowledged. “ It is dull for young people 
in Hopetown. There’s nothing to look forward 
to, nothing going on, and a glimpse into the world 
outside now and again is as necessary as an edu- 
cation ; indeed, it’s the continuation of one, a much 
needed supplement.” 

“ I don’t want any glimpse into the world for 
my part,” exclaimed Charlie, “when I get there I 
want to stay.” 

“Wouldn’t you miss the mountains.?” asked 
Marian. “ I think I should get so homesick for 


86 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


a sight of them, I couldn’t be contented anywhere 
if I couldn’t see them once in awhile. I love 
them, they’re like dear old friends.” 

‘‘And I hate the very sight of them,” was the 
reply. “Am tired loo^king at them. They’re 
always the same. Great piles of rock, like prison 
walls, shutting you in. I never could understand 
what people find to rave about in the mountains.” 

“Some people,” suggested John dryly, “are born 
color-blind ; maybe that’s what’s the matter with 
you. Artists and tourists seem to see something.” 

“ Our family are all color-blind, then,” retorted 
Charlie, “ for mother says the mountains give her 
the blues, make her feel all the time as if she were at 
the bottom of a well, and father’s only use for them 
is the silver that’s inside. Chicago’s my choice.” 

“ Would you like to live there always } ” inquired 
Mrs. Howard. 

“Yes, I would. Mean to do it, too. The rat- 
tling pace they go at there just suits me. I’ve 
only one life to live, and I mean to live that to 
suit myself. There’s nothing here to interest a 
fellow,” he went on, “and it takes you all day to 
go nowhere. Mother’s always driving at me about 
reading and improving my mind. I don’t care 
about reading except the newspapers, and reading 
them makes me feel worse than ever.” 

“ You help your father round the mine a good 
deal, don’t you ? ” said John. 



THE STORY OF A CANON. 


87 


Yes, but mostly in the office, and just to think 
about that makes me tired. I want to be on the 
go all the time looking after things outside, but 
father has an idea that everybody has to go 
through a certain routine to learn business, so he 
keeps me at the desk. He’s boss now, but I’ll 
make a bolt some of these days that’ll make him 
open his eyes, and wish he hadn’t been so bull- 
headed.” 

“ Don’t do anything rash, Charlie,” John advised 
kindly. “Your father means all right by you, he’s 
working on a system, you’re not ; that’s why 
things hitch. Depend upon it, he sees farther 
along the track you’re going on than you do your- 
self. If you’ll only obey orders now, without 
grumbling even to yourself, you’ll be better able to 
be your own boss, and other people’s, bye and bye.” 

The scowl on Charlie’s handsome face lighted 
at the sympathetic tone and words, and he said 
more hopefully, “Father says he’s going to buy a 
home in Chicago and settle down there. If he 
does. I’ll have a better show to get hold of some- 
thing to suit me. I don’t mind work, Mrs. How- 
ard, if I like it.” 

“A good many of us feel that way, Charlie,” 
John answered sadly, “but not many of us have 
any choice in the matter. Most of us have to do, 
not what we want, but what we can. The true 
wisdom is to do it as well and as patiently as pos- 


88 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


sible. This everlasting growl and fret about 
uncongenial work and surroundings does no good, 
only makes them harder to endure, and ourselves 
less fit to bear them. This eternal kick against 
the pricks of life but drives them further in.” 

“ What do you do when everything goes wrong 
with you ? ” Charlie asked. 

‘‘Everything don’t very often go wrong,” John 
replied, with that look of invincible good nature so 
characteristic of him, “ but when that happens I 
stand it as long as I can, and when I can’t hold 
out any longer, I go away from there. The 
world’s wide.” 

“ Supposing it was something you couldn’t run 
away from ? ” 

“ I’d make the best of it and say as little as I 
could. The less you talk over your wrongs the 
better ; it only inflames them and irritates you.” 

“ Do you ever get mad, Mr. Howard ? ” Charlie 
continued, looking curiously at him. 

The personal turn the conversation had taken 
must be annoying to John, I knew, but he said 
quietly, “ Sometimes, not often though. It don’t 
pay.” 

“ I can’t imagine you going all to pieces like 
some men I know,” Charlie went on, “and yet I 
fancy it’s not because you couldn’t.” 

“I’ve seen Mr. Howard go all to pieces two or 
three times in my life,” I interrupted, “and I can 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


89 


tell you some other things went to pieces about 
the same time.” 

I wish papa would tell us about some of his 
fighting adventures,” Marian said, ^‘but he never 
will. Won’t you to-night ? ” she pleaded, putting 
her arm caressingly around his neck. 

I’ve nothing to tell in that line,” he answered, 
‘‘and besides it’s time you were giving us some 
music.” 

“That’s so,” Mrs. Howard said. “Let’s try 
this anthem, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’ You 
all know it.” 

For an hour we sang, and then some one sug- 
gested a walk to the corner. Naturally Marian 
and Charlie seemed to gravitate toward each 
other, and with a keen pain I watched them go 
down the steps arm in arm, and disappear in the 
grey dusk of the summer night. Unnoticed I 
slipped away to my den upstairs, there to face the 
new conditions, and regain not seeming but actual 
possession of myself. 

All through the ages these soundless battles go 
on, behind the closed doors of the human soul. 
No clash of weapons, not even a moan may betray 
their existence, and yet on these silent battle- 
fields, the destiny of countless human beings for 
time and eternity is settled. Either more or less 
of men or women do we come up and out of the 
solemn conflicts. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Early next morning, before the sun had climbed 
the crest of the eastern hills, John and I had 
breakfasted and started for our weekly camping 
ground. We were due at the mines at seven 
o’clock, and as it took an hour’s steady climbing 
to get there on time, an early start was a necessity. 

In the summer this was not a hardship, but in 
the dark of a winter’s morning to face the keen 
biting air of five or six o’clock, and grope your 
way half blinded with snow up a howling ice-bound 
canon, was an experience to be remembered. 

Over twenty years before John Howard had 
stood at the parting of two ways. No guide post 
with mute finger of warning indicated the trend or 
termination of the diverging paths, and so like 
many another good fellow, for himself he took the 
wrong turn. 

Was it a mocking chance that stood at the forks 
of the road that summer morning long ago, 
beckoning him away from the busy haunts of men 
where he belonged, down lonely canons and 
towards mining wildernesses in search of an ignis- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


91 


fatuus? Or is there indeed a divinity guiding us 
through all the mistakes of this life, bringing 
victory out of seeming defeat, gain out of loss, 
and finally leading as on stepping-stones of our 
very follies to higher plateaus on the hills of time, 
where outlook and power of vision alike are en- 
larged ? We can but hope so, and that somehow, 
somewhere, good will be the final outcome of it all. 
As Tennyson beautifully says. 

Behold we know not anything, • 

We can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off, at last to all. 

And every winter turn to spring. 

Musing thus in my own mind as we traveled 
upward that June morning, thought ran into speech. 

Don’t you often regret, John, that you ever 
saw these mountains .? ’* I asked. 

‘‘Sometimes I do; but maybe things will turn 
out all right yet,” was the cheery reply. “The 
end may make up for the way leading to it.” 

“ Granting that,” I said, “ doesn’t it seem a fear- 
ful waste of the forces of life to have lived as you 
have } First buried yourself alive, and then spent 
twenty-three years digging yourself out.” 

He laughed. “ If I was only sure of getting out 
now, and being able to stay out, I wouldn’t mind 
the long, mole’s life back of me so much.” 

“Your first mining experiences were in San 
Juan country, were they not } ” I inquired. 


92 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“No. I prospected for about a year round this 
canon first, before going south.” After a pause 
he went on, — “that San Juan trip was a terror, I 
tell you ; is now even to think about. ‘Roughing 
it ’ twenty-three years ago in the wilds of Colorado 
was no trifle.” 

“ I suppose you didn’t realize what it was, till 
you got into it.” 

“No one can,” he answered; “ ‘ roughing it ’ 
sounds all right, till you try it, and then there are 
degrees in the experience. Mine was of the 
hardest.” 

“ Was there ever any real danger ” I inquired. 

“ Danger ? — Well I should say as much. That 
part of Colorado then was practically a wilderness, 
with savage beasts and still more savage men 
roaming everywhere. Indians were easier to run 
across than lodes. Rifle in one hand, pick-axe in 
the other, miners would start on their hunt for 
float, never knowing what kind of a prospect hole 
they’d stumble into before night — a grave or a 
mine.” 

“ How did you manage to live ? ” I asked. 

“That was a conundrum,” he answered, with a 
thoughtful, introspective look, as if searching in 
memory’s stores for half forgotten facts. “Food 
had to be packed in on jacks, sometimes a hundred 
miles ; flour cost $20 a sack, and the only grub to 
be had for love or money, was bacon, beans and 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


93 


flour. Money was hard to get, and love was not 
often legal tender.” 

Your rifle was your best friend, I suppose.” 

“Ya’, that was all that came between us and 
starvation many a time. Quail or rabbits and flap- 
jacks,” he added humorously, “were pretty good 
substitutes for quail and manna, but I used to 
have lots of sympathy for the Israelites wanting 
onions. Things got to taste awful flat.” 

“ It’s a wonder you didn’t get discouraged and 
strike out for more civilized regions,” I said. 

“ Hope kept us there,” was the reply. “ Some 
day our ship would come in we thought, and we’d 
get back pay all right. That idea nerved us to 
bear lots.” 

“ Did you ever strike anything worth while } ” 

“Oh, yes. Sometimes when I think of all I 
found and left there it turns me sick. I put in 
between three and four years in the San Juan 
country, tramping over the hills as regular as the 
sun himself, scratching round prospect holes for 
a living, as Spense said yesterday, ‘living like a 
coyote.’ At the end of that time I had discovered 
and recorded several good lodes.” 

“ What in the world made you leave them } ” I 
inquired, wonderingly. 

“Necessity,” he said bitterly. “The law re- 
quired that you sink ten feet on each lode, and 
then record your discovery. This constituted 


94 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


your title or claim ; but in order to retain posses- 
sion, this amount of work had to be done every 
year, and was considered equivalent to expending 
^loo, the legal requirement/’ 

“ To meet this tax, of course a poor man had to 
stay with his lodes, and the tremendous cost of 
living made this a. hard matter to do. No work 
was to be had. With the tastes of a white man 
you had to live like a savage.” 

“ Couldn’t you take silver enough out to pay 
current expenses ? ” 

“We could take it out all right,” he answered, 
“but there was no market after you had it out. 
Smelters had not yet been built, and freight 
charges were too high to ship it to more civilized 
regions.” 

“Were there many miners in the San Juan 
when you were there ? ” 

“Not a great many,” he replied. “You might 
travel for months and never meet a white man. 
Later on they came by thousands ; but there was 
too much danger of being corraled by the Indians, 
when we were there, to make it a popular resort.” 

“ How many were there in your party ? ” 

He paused an instant before replying. “ I was 
going to say three men, each with his own mule. 
Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to substitute 
jackasses for men.” 

“Oh well,” I cried, “you needn’t be so hard on 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


95 


yourself. You did it for the best. You were 
ahead of the times some, and in your case it didn’t 
pay, that was all.” 

‘‘We all felt,” John went on, “that it was only a 
matter of time when civilization would come, and 
success for us with it ; but then we didn’t know 
when that time would be. It was too late for us 
anyhow. We couldn’t wait.” 

“ I remember reading about the opening up of 
that country,” I said. “ It created quite an 
excitement.” 

“Yes,” John answered, “a few years later civ- 
ilization did come. Capital eager for investment 
rushed in, but the men who had first penetrated the 
wild, unknown regions, and drawn attention to its 
resources, were no longer there. They were 
starved out. A new set who hadn’t blazed their 
way through pathless forests, and skirmished over 
barren mountain sides, sold or worked the lodes 
that the advance guard of pioneers risked their 
lives to discover and hold.” 

“Did you ever hear anything of your lodes ” I 
asked. 

“Yes,” he answered, “fortunes were taken out 
of them later on.” 

“Such is life,” I thought sadly ; “those who dis- 
cover a new law or a new world in their lifetime, 
have no reward. Those who plow and who sow 
reap no harvest.” 


96 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


After leaving that country, where did you 
go ? ” I inquired. 

Oh, tried my luck in an older camp,” he said. 
“ Time and money are the only capital a poor man 
has, and I invested these to the best of my 
ability.” 

‘‘I bet you did, John, and with the prodigal 
recklessness of youth, and your own nature.” 

*‘Ya,” he answered, “I never thought those 
days my bank could break, but years of hard work 
have made pretty big inroads on the reserve. 
May have to put up the shutters before it’s time.” 

“The old prophecy has been literally fulfilled 
in your case,” I remarked. 

“ What’s that ? ” he asked. 

“‘In the sweat of his brow shall man eat 
bread.’ ” 

“I’ve never quarrelled with that fact,” he 
answered cheerfully. “ It’s more than a prophecy, 
it’s a law of the universe for most men; as much 
so as gravity or any other law, and the penalties 
attached to evading it are generally worse than 
those involved in accepting it. To use up your 
capital, your life, and in the end have nothing to 
show for the outlay, that’s what takes the sand 
out of a fellow.” 

“ When you first became interested in mining,” 
I said, “it must have been a very different busi- 
ness from what it is now,” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


97 


'‘Entirely so,” he answered. “Silver meant 
money then, and back of us, we thought, were the 
laws of the United States. That was the reason 
we came out here. I’ll guarantee not one man in 
fifty would have gone into silver mining, but for 
the constitutional declaration that silver bullion, 
as well as gold, was as good as money. Free 
coinage of both metals was one of the articles of 
the constitution, and we believed it to be funda- 
mental, as immovable as the hills themselves !” 

“ The idea of having the Bank of Nature to fall 
back upon,” I said, “of making her cashier for all 
your needs, was certainly an inspiring one.” 

“Yes, unconsciously I think it influenced 
many,” he replied; “most men felt they would 
rather wrestle with the mountains for a living, and 
take their pay direct from them, than from their 
fellow-men. It was a gloriously independent life.” 

“Did you feel the effects of the demonetiza- 
tion of silver at once 1 asked. 

“No, not for many years after. It was a long 
time before miners, or anybody in the country for 
that matter, realized, or even knew what had been 
done. Even when they did, the far-reaching, hurt- 
ful consequences of the act were not realized. In 
fact, it has always been treated as a side-issue, 
instead of a great central truth on which all other 
truths rest. We are just beginning to find out 
what the demonetization of silver in 1873 nieant.” 


98 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


‘‘The great question of destroying half the 
money of the country,” he went on, “was never 
brought before the people at all. They were 
never consulted. It was a kind of dark lantern 
business, accomplished behind closed doors, to 
please foreign powers, more particularly England, 
and also Wall Street.” 

At this point in the conversation our roads 
diverged. John came to a momentary stand-still. 
“Here we part,” he said ; “good-bye. Take good 
care of yourself, and if you’ve time this week 
come down to the cabin and see me. So long,” 
and waving his hand in farewell greeting he 
strode on up the canon, while I branched off to 
the right. 

As I continued my solitary climb, thought would 
persistently return to John Howard. 

In many respects his mining life was a repre- 
sentative one. 

Three years and a half of persistent toil and 
endeavor, buried in a hole in the San Juan, twenty 
more put in prospecting, leasing, contracting and 
mining, drudgery of all kinds, — this had been the 
sum of his life, and the end was not yet. The 
goal of his wishes was no nearer. So many years 
of his capital were gone, but the fortune was not 
made, and worst of all, there was no interest on 
the investment. He had made a living after the 
simplest fashion for his family, developed a few 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


99 


prospect holes into mines, patented them, — that 
was all, — and yet with such men, to give up 
seems an impossibility. Having put their hand to 
the mining plow, they must go to the end of the 
furrow, if only an empty grave awaits them 
there. 

You cannot see a foot into the ground, and this 
very uncertainty lures them on, and renders life 
endurable through the long ordeal. 

All over the hillsides of Colorado are countless 
holes or tunnels, gaping in significant loneliness. 
They are called deserted mines ; more fitly might 
they be termed graves of buried hopes. 


CHAPTER IX. 

My own experience in mining regions had 
not been so discouraging. Practical mining, 
‘‘roughing it,” had never attracted me. Consti- 
tutionally I was unfitted for that kind of work. 
Taste and education alike pointed in a different 
direction. 

For several years I had been superintendent of 
a large mine, owned and controlled by an English 
company. The history of this mine, to those not 
conversant with mining details, would be a revela- 
tion. The wonder would not be at the estimated 
cost of silver production, ^1.29 an ounce, but that 
its cost was not ten times more. 

People from all over the world come to visit the 
picturesque canons of Colorado, but, as a rule, 
they carry away most erroneous ideas concerning 
mining. Long strings of jacks are to be seen 
filing Indian fashion, down the steep trails, sacks 
of ore strapped securely to their shaggy sides. 
The picture is a striking one, and takes hold of 
the imagination. The average stranger probably 

mistakes ore for bullion, and goes home with an 
100 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


101 


Arabian Night’s tale of the wonderful stores of 
wealth hidden in the treasure-houses of the 
mountains. 

The eno-rmous cost of bringing that wealth to 
the surface, and strapping it on those pack-ani- 
mals is never thought of, if, indeed, it is known. 
The cost of mining is measured by the spectator’s 
knowledge, or rather want of knowledge, with the 
usual result. 

The Bonanza King, of which I had charge, was 
an old and finely developed property, considered 
one of the paying mines of the country. Two or 
three fortunes had already been sunk in improve- 
ments : in shafts, tunnels, drifts, winzes, levels, 
and so forth. These passage-ways had all been 
blasted out of the solid rock, at a cost of from 
;^io to ^50 a foot. Timbering this net work of 
galleries and shafts, had added yet another item 
to the large bill of expense. Buildings of various 
kinds had had to be erected, costly machinery 
hauled and set up, wagon roads made, tracks laid, 
and a concentrating mill built to treat the low 
grade ores and make them worth shipping. And 
all this outlay, be it remembered, was only pre- 
paratory. 

Not stopping at my cabin that morning to 
change my suit for the digging clothes used in 
the mine, I rode at once to the mouth of the 
tunnel. About a hundred men were assembled 


102 


THE STORY OF A CAStON. 


there, waiting for the seven o’clock whistle to 
blow. 

In their blue overalls, spattered with limy spots, 
they stood around in groups, chatting, or lounged 
at their ease among the grey boulders, sunning 
themselves. They were all company men, work- 
ing for day’s pay, and in the aggregate represented 
a different class altogether from the adventurous 
prospectors, — those “free lances” of the mining 
community, using the capital God gave them, call- 
ing no man master, and trusting the final outcome 
to their chance of “striking it.” 

As a class, these day’s-pay miners resembled 
more nearly the men employed in coal mines the 
world over, and providing the pay was all right, 
were satisfied with present conditions. Their to- 
morrow was but a lengthened yesterday. Pros- 
pectors, leasers, on the other hand, are recruited 
from a different set of men, are gathered from all 
ranks and conditions, from college graduates to 
farmers and mechanics. One characteristic pos- 
sesses all alike; deep-rooted discontent with present 
circumstances, and a sturdy determination to bet- 
ter them if possible. 

Their peace of mind, their animal content is 
probably less than that of the daily wage-earner, 
but their horizon is wider, their ambition greater, 
their life more intense. 

It was a glorious morning. The sun-filled 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


103 


canon glowed and shimmered in the dazzling 
light, waves of life-giving, but not enervating 
warmth, reflecting from the heat -saturated crags. 

Far above, masses of castellated rock caught on 
their jagged edges the golden rays ; here and 
there level lines of quivering light pierced the 
dark pine woods, fringing their outskirts with 
silver radiance. In the dim distance, melting 
into the horizon, towered the snow-capped peaks 
of the Rockies, looking, with their domes and 
spires of shining whiteness, like some far-away 
eastern city in the clouds. From a thicket of 
wild roses near by, birds carolled their cheery 
song ; down in the valley the ever present creek 
rippled and glistened, tumbled and roared. 

It was a bright, gladsome scene to leave, and as 
the whistle gave the shrill signal, and the long 
procession of miners picked up their pointed 
candle-sticks and filed slowly, Indian-fashion, into 
the cavernous opening in the hill-side, a feeling 
of regret and inward protest instinctively filled 
my heart. 

To be shut up all day in sunless holes did seem 
a terrible fate. The only comfort was, the doom 
was self-inflicted, and “ the prison unto which we 
doom ourselves ” no prison is. 

The first step in my round of inspection, that 
morning, led through the ore houses, where 
mounds of glistening gray ore, worth thousands 


104 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


of dollars, lay waiting to be ‘sorted and sacked. 
Farther on was the blacksmith’s shop, with its 
genial Vulcan sharpening drills and bandying 
good-natured jests with his fellow-workmen. 
Standing there in the shower of falling sparks, 
sleeves rolled up above the elbow, the knots 
and ropes of muscles swelling out on his 
brawny arms, he seemed a very athlete, a nine- 
teenth century copy of some ancient gladiator. 

From the flaming forge we step into the tunnel. 
It is a thousand feet long, and of course dark as 
the blackest night. Down the centre of this 
passage is the track on which the small cars, 
laden with ore, run back and forth from the top 
of the shaft to the outside world. 

As we enter the gloomy portals of this under- 
ground burrow, a sensation of dampness strikes 
us with a sudden chill. Candle in hand we grope 
our way between slimy walls, water oozing out 
between the crevices like a profuse perspiration. 
At the end of the tunnel is the engine room, h 
chamber blasted out of the solid rock at an ex- 
pense of ^15,000. 

Here is the heart of the whole industry. The 
pulsing of the machine imprisoned here, alone 
keeps life circulating through all the veins of the 
mine. Pumps and drills are kept going through 
its steady throbbing, air supplied where needed, 
and broken rock hoisted to the surface. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


105 


Involuntarily you pause on the threshold and 
think of Dante’s Inferno. Three or four lamps 
shed a faint, uncertain light on the scene, but 
the flickering yellow glare seems only to make 
the darkness more visible. Weird Rembrandt- 
looking shadows lurk outside the circle of light. 
The furnace doors glow like the flaming eyes 
of some underground monster, and the steady 
throb of the engine’s heart seems its labored 
breathing. 

From here, through a trap-door, we enter the 
shaft or pit, running downward six hundred feet. 
It is sub-divided into two compartments, one for 
the use of miners, the other for the passage of 
ore-buckets. Ladders fastened to the sides are 
the only stairs. Down these we feel our way 
through seventy feet of tangible darkness to the 
first level, the candles throwing a faint light on 
the slippery rounds and slanting, timber-lined 
walls as we descend. This first gallery extends 
three or four hundred feet, perhaps, into the heart 
of the mountains, and below are seven similar 
levels. Between each the ground is honey- 
combed with workings, and at various points 
you come on the busy human ants, drilling, pick- 
ing, shovelling. The cavernous gloom, the light of 
the candles fastened in the hat-band of each miner 
like the fiery eye of some pigmy Cyclops, the 
mysterious flitting shadows give a weird, unearthly 


106 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


appearance to the whole scene, and the men at 
work seem gnome-like and unreal. 

The point of danger and interest in every 
miner’s life is setting off the blasts. Holes drilled 
the desired length are filled with giant powder, the 
fuse lighted, and the laws of science and gun- 
powder left to do their work. At a safe distance, 
or behind some sheltering buttress, the men take 
refuge. In a few moments, with a concussion that 
shakes the earth, the explosion takes place. Con- 
fined as it is in narrow drifts, the noise is appalling, 
and reverberates with a roar mightier than the 
imprisoned thunder echoing from peak to peak 
among the mountains. 

Occasionally shots fail to go off, and the luck- 
less miner who packed the hole has to pick it 
out. Here has been the tragedy of many a 
home. It is a delicate and dangerous opera- 
tion, and the man doing it takes his life in his 
hand. A miscalculation, a misstrike, a jar even, 
may explode the hypersensitive cap, the blast go 
off, and multilation and death ensue. 

Such is the daily life, such are the surroundings 
of a silver miner. Can we put ourselves in his 
place and realize what that life is ? — the life of 
this, our brother ? 

The hemisphere of night overshadows his 
waking hours as well as his sleeping ones. At 
brief intervals only does he pass into the hemi- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


107 


sphere of sunshine, enjoyed so unconsciously by 
the many. Missed shots, cave-ins, poisonous 
smoke, are foes that ever lurk assassin-like in 
those under-ground workings, and no miner 
knows when or where he may come face to 
face with the shadow feared of man. 

At best a one-sided, colorless existence, yet 
resting on foundations of industry, patience and 
self-sacrifice, and in this respect superior to many 
a showy, pretentious life, rearing its false eleva- 
tion in the world of trade, speculation or fashion, 
and resting on nothing but trickery and dishonesty. 


CHAPTER X. 


Although it was the first week in June, the 
evenings were still chilly. Partly for warmth’s 
sake, partly for companionship, I lighted a fire in 
my cabin. The open fire-place, with its glowing 
pitch-pine logs, had stood to me for comforting 
human fellowship in days past ; to-night it might 
do so again. 

Just as I had settled myself in front of the 
blaze, prepared to yield to the anodyne influences, 
a knock came at the door. 

“ Confound it,” was my muttered exclamation, 
“come in,” the audible one. The door opened 
and Pat O’Malley stepped into the radiance of 
the fire-lighted room. 

Although in my heart wishing the old fellow 
at Jericho, or some other equally remote place, I 
would not let him see that he was unwelcome. 
He was a well-meaning Irishman, an original in 
his way, and remarkably intelligent. When not 
otherwise engaged, I thoroughly enjoyed Pat. 
His deep insight into men and motives, his origi- 
nal analysis of character, his funny commentaries 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


109 


on life and its checkered happenings were quite 
amusing ; but to-night I was not in line with my 
surroundings. A woman’s hand unawares had 
touched the machinery of life, and for me its 
wheels were out of gear. Fortunately only an 
audience was required. A few questions or hints, 
and like Tennyson’s brook, Pat would run on 
forever. 

Good avenin’, sorr, an’ how are ye to-night ? ” 
was the first salutation, pronounced in a staccato 
style peculiarly his own. 

“I’m first-rate, Pat. How are you, yourself.^” 

“ Oh sure, I can’t complain for an ould man. If 
me bank account was as good as me health, it’s 
purty well off I’d be.” 

“Help yourself to a chair, Pat,” I said, “and 
make yourself at home.” 

“Thank you, sorr, an’ that’s phat.I can always 
do when I come to see you,” was the character- 
istic rejoinder. 

“An Irishman’s nothing if he isn’t polite,” I 
answered. 

“It’s the trut’ I’m tellin’ ye, Misther Philip,” he 
retorted. “I niver saw the blarney stone in me 
loife.” 

Sitting down and spreading out his large 
horny hands to the blaze, he looked around 
curiously. 

“You’re purty well fixed for an ould bachelor. 


no 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Misther Philip. Thim rooms is mighty snug an’ 
convanient.” 

“I suppose you remember when they were 
built,” I said. 

Ay, an’ added on to. The superintindents gin- 
erally lived here, an’ diviloped the house to shute 
their convanience. If thim walls cud only shpake, 
they cud tell many a quare tale of days gone by. 
Lots of big-bugs have lived here, and lots av big 
toimes they’ve had in early days.” 

You’re quite an old timer yourself, Pat. You 
must recollect when the Bonanza King was only a 
prospect.” 

“That’s what I do,” he acknowledged, ruefully, 
“an’ it makes me feel bad to think how long I’ve 
been rollin’ round this ould graveyard av a place, 
and nothin’ to show for it. A man puts the bist 
part of his life in thim holes in the ground, sorr, 
an’ if he don’t take anything out, he’s very soon 
only fit to be shovelled into the six-foot hole that’s 
waitin’ for us all. Some av us begin diggin’ our 
own graves when we’re purty young, more’s the 
pity.” 

“What made you come out here in the first 
place V I asked. 

“To better me condition in loife sure, loike the 
rest av yez. If I cud ha’ left prospectin’ alone, 
an’ been contint to live as me father an’ gran’- 
father did afore me, I wud ha’ been better off 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Ill 


maybe, but me shtandard was higher. I had a 
great desoire to live the loife av a gintleman, an’ 
have the comforts an’ preveledges av that class, 
so I thried to put all the quick I knew av into 
makin’ money.” 

“You have made several stakes, haven’t 
you .? ” 

“Made an’ lost, sorr, but at the last clane up 
there was somethin’ lift over. Thank God, I’ve 
enough invisted in Silver Ridge to take caVe av 
me ould age and give me a dacent burial, an’ 
enough interest yit in a mine or two to keep me 
hopes from d’yin’ wid starvation.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to go back to Ireland to live, 
Pat .? ” 

“ Pd loike nothin’ better, sorr, than to go back 
for a visit, but I cudn’t shtay there. The shpirit 
av this counthry is in the very marrow av me. 
I’ve been thinkin’, though, if silver wud go up a 
peg or two. I’d sell out, lave this melancolius 
place an’ go lower. Be jabers, the very turf’s 
wore off the tops an’ sides av the hills wid the 
dryness, an’ the hair’s wore off the top av me 
head for the same reason. I’m thinkin’, for I came 
from a shtock that’s well thatched. It is not good 
for man to live where grass can’t grow.” 

“You were going to tell me about the begin- 
nings of the Bonanza, I thought.” 

“Sure an’ I was, but me head’s loike a room 


112 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


full av feathers, an’ ivery wurrud ye shpake is 
loike a door openin’ into that same. It do send 
things a-flyin’. Well, to go back to the shtartih’ 
point. The Bonanza was dish-covered way back 
in the sixties, an’ sold for a thrifle to some fellas 
that knew a good thing whin they saw it. They 
worked an’ diviloped, planned an’ schamed, bap- 
tized it with a high soundin’ name, an’ finally sold 
out to an English company for $ 200 , 000 . Thin 
the loively toimes in this camp comminced for 
sure. Whin men tuk the moinin’ faver in thim 
days, sorr, it wint to their heads an’ made them 
woild wid speculation. Ivery body was boun’ to 
be rich in a minute. Money, or fwat was as good 
for a toime, promises av money, an’ champagne, 
were as plentiful as wather among the big-bugs, 
an’ in his own moind ivery poor man was rich, 
ivery prospect hole was a fortune. It was foine 
whoile it lasted.” 

“ I have often heard of the exciting times you 
had in those early days,” I said. “ Pretty lawless 
weren’t they } ” 

“Ivery man was a law unto himself,” Pat an- 
swered. “ If the man was good, it was all roight ; 
if not, an’ ye were in his power, God help ye, for 
moight was roight. Some av the very best min I 
ever knew in me loife were here thin, an’ some 
av the very wurrst, the dregs, — the very divil’s 
lavins av other places.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


113 


“That’s the way in all new mining camps, I 
expect, Pat,” was my reply. “The absence of 
accustomed restraints, the greater freedom, is a 
temptation to men to show themselves in their 
true colors.” 

Pat chuckled. “The color a good many av 
thim showed, thim days, was the pirate’s black 
flag, an’ the saints have marcy on ye if ye didn’t 
see it in toime. Under that many a foine-lookin’ 
craft sailed, an’ tuk what they cud ivery chance 
they got. In a new counthry, Mr. Philip, a smart 
rogue is a purty bad bedfellow.” 

“ You had mining laws then, as now, for protec- 
tion,” I said. “ What was the trouble ? ” 

“ Faith, an’ I dun know fwhat was the matther. 
Minin’ laws wus not so well defoined or under- 
shtood, maybe ; anyhow it was aisier to git 
around thim an’ chate a man out av his roights. 
I tell ye, sorr,” he went on, “whin the conscience 
av a man an’ the tin commandments are packed 
away wid the rest av his thraps back East, or left 
home in the ould counthry, there’s no sayin’ fwhat 
he’ll do or fwhat he’ll swear to. Howsomiver, 
things got badly mixed. There was lots av 
lawin’.” 

“Things get mixed up now,” I answered; “the 
lawyers are kept busy still.” 

“Thrue for ye, sorr,” he retorted, “but the 
counthry’s settled now, an’ there’s more chance 


114 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


av shtraightenin’ out the roight from the wrong. 
Minin’ laws are better known, an’ onprincipled 
min don’t dare thry the dhirty thricks wid other 
folks belongings they did years gone. They’d 
see the wrong side av the pinitintiary if they did, 
an’ I’m thinkin’, Mr. Philip, there’s many a wan 
puttin’ on lots av shtyle to-day in the wurrld, that 
ought to be inside av that same sanitarium, if 
ivery man had his deserts. It wud be betther for 
the health av their neighbors.” 

Maybe, Pat,” I acknowledged, “ but before 
long, like Judas, we’ll all go to our own place, — 
wherever that is, — so we needn’t bother about 
present arrangements. They’re only temporary. 
Everybody’ll find his own levd bye and bye, and 
it will be a final finding, too. But to return to 
the mine, Pat. Lots of good men backed this 
canon in those days, both with influence and 
money ; didn’t they } ” 

They did, sorr, an’ they’d ha’ backed it longer, 
if thrickery an’ dishonesty hadn’t done the busi- 
ness. There wus good solid min interested in 
this camp, an’ good mines to be interested in. 
The money was put in all right, but the min that 
put the money in didn’t put thimselves, an’ the 
garrons they sint in their place knew little av 
minin’ an’ less av honesty. That’s the koind av 
shenannigan that’s given the moinin’ industry a 
black oi the world over.” He was silent for a 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


115 


moment, looking thoughtfully into the fire and 
mouthing the stem of his old clay pipe. ‘*Ah, 
thim days,” he went on musingly, “thim days, 
’twas loike dhrinkin’ champagne ivery day to be 
aloive an’ young thin. I wish, Misther Philip, 
you cud ha’ seen some av the gintlemen we had 
round thim diggin’s at that toime.” 

“Better than they are now } ” I asked. 

“ Well, I dunno about their bein’ any betther, 
but some av thim had a way an’ a manner wid 
’em such as ye don’t see nowadays. There was 
a Misther Harcourt, wan av the company, came 
out from England to look into matthers a bit and 
shtay awhile. I remimber him well. He was a 
gintleman, indade. Between him an’ the other 
high shteppers there was a big differ, the wan 
was the rale article, the other only a very bad 
imitation. ’Tis not an aisy thing to copy a gin- 
tleman, far less be wan, onless you’ve got the 
foine feelin’s inside.” 

“You don’t think then gentlemen are common, 
every-day productions.^ ” 

“ I do not,” he said, with a positive nod of his 
head and twinkle in his eye, that were very 
amusing. 

“ What is your idea of a gentleman, Pat } ” I 
asked, laughing. 

“Well, I’m not a gintleman mesilf, sorr, an’ 
maybe me opinion’s not worruth much, but I 


116 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


have wan. I have seen gintlemen an’ I know 
wan whin I see him. To begin wid, ye can’t 
make a gintleman in wan generation, any more 
than you can a thoroughbred. You’ve got to 
have a good shtock to commince wid, an’ thin 
you need toime an’ trainin’ to devilop him. 
There’s a foineness an’ sensitiveness ingrained in 
the nature av a rale gintleman, loike the shtripes 
on a tiger’s back. Ye can no more rub off the 
wan than ye can the other. He’s a man first, an 
eddicated man next if ye will, an’ a gintleman 
afterwards. As a rule it takes three ginerations 
to make him, but when he is made, to me moind, 
he’s the greatest production in the world. He’s 
good to look at, he’s good to talk to, an’ he’s good 
to have dalin’s wid. Money or foine clo’es ain’t 
needed to piece him out. He’s independent of 
sich thrifies.” 

Guess you’re about right, Pat,” I said, “but 
in this matter of fact age. I’m afraid we don’t 
value this product of the centuries as we ought. 
In the busy rush of life we don’t pause long 
enough to study or appreciate it. Surface imita- 
tions suit us just as well. The showy glitter of 
the frame and surroundings too often dazzle 
us, and we mistake coarse daubs for master- 
pieces.” 

“You’re gittin’ beyond me depth, now, sorr ; I 
don’t know anything about pictures, cudn’t tell 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


117 


a good picture from a bad one ; but I do know 
the difference between min an’ min. If I had 
been born in this democratic counthry, where wan 
man’s as good as another, an’ a little betther, I 
moightn’t be able to do that, but I have the 
advantage of being born in Ireland. This is a 
great counthry for a poor man, sorr, but it has its 
dhrawbacks, an’ wan is want av riverence. When 
a man thinks he’s just as good’s anybody else, he 
has no one to look up to higher than himsilf, of 
course. Do you understand fwhat I’m tryin’ to 
tell ye ? ” 

“Yes, I think I do, Pat. You mean he has no 
living standard to measure himself by.” 

“ Well, that’s a misfortune for the man. Ameri- 
cans as a people are not riverent either towards 
min or towards God, an’ want of riverence is a 
great want out av a man’s character or a nation’s. 
Don’t mishunderstand me, sorr. I love this coun- 
thry an’ her institutions, have fought for thim, 
would again if need be, but there’s something to 
be said in favor av an aristocracy, too, if it’s the 
ginuine article.” 

“ Where did you say Mr. Harcourt came 
from ? ” I asked. 

“He was an Englishman,” Pat answered, “but 
he moight as well ha’ been an Irishman. Ye 
cudn’t tell the differ. Rale gintlemen look aloike 
an’ act aloike the world over, an’ the betther bred 


118 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


they are, the greater the family resimblance, 
Common min av different nations are as onloike 
as pais an’ bains ; but the higher the grade, the 
harder to tell where it came frum.” 

I have noticed that frequently in traveling,” I 
assented, and to myself I thought, possibly this 
oneness of nature had run all through the ages, 
stamping each kindred soul with a family likeness, 
and radiating from the inner to the outer man its 
subtle similarity. Across the centuries a Jewish 
Abraham and an American Lincoln could clasp 
hands, unconscious of the petty idiosyncrasies of 
the passing years, but knit together in that true 
aristocracy of heart which is deeper than race, 
and traces its lineage to an ancestry immortal in 
its own right. 

‘‘Afther Misther Harcourt went home,” Pat 
went on, after staring blankly at me while I 
philosophized, “thin the loively toimes comminced 
here for sure. The company sint out superintend- 
ents that wus green at the business ; min that 
thought they wus cornin’ to live wid savages and 
look afther thim. In most cases the savages got 
away wid ’em and scalped thim an’ the company 
too. 

“The first was a young man, an only son, who 
had been raised loike a young lady by his mother, 
back in the ould counthry. She had kept him as 
near as possible away from the world and its 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


119 


seducing temptations, but his health wasn’t very 
good, an’ she thought the Rocky Mountains wud 
be a noice safe place for her Teddy to rusticate 
in. He cud shtrengthen his constitution, see the 
scainery an’ draw a big salary at the same time. 
There would be no temptations in the wilderness 
out here, for of course the uncivilized humans he’d 
meet in the wild and wooly West, wudn’t be fit 
to shpake to.” 

“ I suppose, poor woman, she thought her son 
would keep himself aloof from all debasing influ- 
ences, and in such a place would never find asso- 
ciates to lead him astray. That’s a mistake many 
a white-souled woman has made before now, both 
with sons and husbands.” 

“ That was about the soize av it, sorr,” Pat re- 
joined, “ and in truth it was small wonder she felt 
that way, for indade Teddy was a good boy to all 
appearance when he came out first. If it had not 
been so kind o’ pitiful, ‘the surpassin’ innocence 
av the choild ’ wud ha’ been laughable. Howsom- 
iver, before many months had passed Teddy was 
wan av the boys, and into every divilment that 
any lawless young Pagan cud conjure up. He 
used to make me think av a young bat that had 
lived all his loife in a dark hole, an’ suddenly got 
shoved into the light av day. The glare excited 
an’ bewildered him, was too much for his wake 
eyes, maybe, an’ he went dashin’ into this foolery 


120 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


an’ that, loike a crature that had no sinse. Consid- 
erin’ his rispictable up-bringin’ an' the foine 
family he came av, it did seem unreasonable.” 

“Yet,” I said, “we see such instances every 
day, and not in mining camps only.” 

“ What do be the rason now think ye, sorr, that 
so many run off the loine whiniver they git out 
av sight av the home station } ” 

“ I don’t know, Pat, unless the governing influ- 
ence of their lives was outside, not inside of them, 
and when they started out on their own track 
they left the governor behind. Any goodness 
not the genuine outcome of a man, you know, is 
like veneering laid on by other hands ; rough con- 
tact with life will soon knock it off. To be lasting, 
character must be a growing principle from within, 
rooted in the nature ; not merely a dead incrusta- 
tion laid on from without. Did you ever hear of 
Emerson, Pat ? ” 

“Sure, an’ I’ve heard the name, sorr, but I 
don't know anything about him barrin the fact 
that he was a writer.” 

“ He was a very profound thinker as well as a 
writer, and he said we are all covered, men and 
women alike, with a thin veneering of polish, but 
that it is apt to crack and the savage crop 
through.” 

“Begorra an’ he was roight,” Pat chuckled. 
“ I’ve seen the horns and hoofs mesilf cropping 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


121 


out av the foinest koind av veneering.” After a 
moment’s pause he went on. ^‘There’s a quare 
little bastie, Misther Philip, I misremimber his 
name this minute, that has such an oi for color 
that he turns the shade av whativer’s nearest 
him. A good many min have the same peculiar- 
ity. Haven’t ye iver taken notice av that bit av 
human histhory, Misther Philip } 

“Yes, often, Pat, and thought that such folk 
were safest at home, if their home was the right 
kind. Among the old landmarks and associa- 
tions they’d reflect only the tone of their 
respectable surroundings, and pass for pretty 
decent fellows.” 

“Well for sure,” Pat retorted, “a man needs 
be more than a looking-glass to this counthry or 
any other moinin’ camp. It is a great place to 
try a man. There do be more than wan koind av 
shmelter out West, an’ loife here shows what 
metal’s in us all ; but thin, as we’ve got to be 
thried by fire before we’ll get into the betther 
place, maybe it’s just as well. A man knows thin 
the stuff that’s in him, an’ if he’s got any sense, 
the knowledge will bring him betther returns in 
the long last. But to reshume. Afther Teddy 
Lawrence went home from the prodigal’s coun- 
thry, sick wid the husks an’ foolishness he’d 
been amusin’ himself wid, a Misther Allen came 
out. He was a much oldher man, felt loike a 


122 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


missionary that had a call to enloighten the 
hathen. 

“He was full av book-larnin’ an’ theories. No- 
body knew anything about scientific moinin’ in 
this counthry but himself. Dressed up in a 
velvet suit, wid yellow gloves an’ a huntin’ whip 
in his hand, he used to ride up to the moine 
ivery day on a bob-tailed, high-shteppin’ horse, 
to tach the ould-fashioned miners his new-fangled 
ways. Howsomever, wid all his new ways an’ 
experiments the moine ran behind, an’ afther 
awhoile he had to go home for his health. Some 
other big-bug cum afther him, an’ so on they wint ; 
but loike the kings in Chronicles, their reigns were 
very short. 

“I tell ye, Misther Philip, I wud loike to give 
the moinin’ companies a bit av advoice. An’ 
ould miner knows a few things they don’t. 
When they want a man to look afther their 
property out West, let thim send an honest 
man if they can git him, an’ if they can’t (the 
breed’s almost extinct. I’m tould) let them kape 
their moines shut. Thin don’t let them burn 
their fingers thryin’ to handle an expert an’ his 
head fooleries. They sound all right on paper, 
but they don’t work very good in moines. Let 
them get a practical miner, wan that knows his 
business. The bist captains have served an ap- 
printiceship from the mast up, an’ know ivery 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


123 


rope av the ship. Shtyle, illigant manners, foine 
eddication may be good in their place, but they’re 
not the hist shtock in trade for a minin’ man. 
Savin’ your prisence, sorr, most superintend- 
ents are nothin’ but figger-heads, drawin’ big 
salaries, iverlastinly chasin’ all over creation 
on important business, an’ puttin’ on lots av 
shtyle, more particularly whin they do be from 
home. 

‘‘An’ now, sorr, its gittin’ late. I must be 
afther puttin’ me head wher I’ll foind it in the 
mornin’, so I’ll loight me pipe an’ bid yez good- 
night.” 

With a salute not unworthy of a grenadier, 
Pat took his hat and staff out of the corner, and 
withdrew to his cabin further up the gulch. As 
he shut the door the sudden jar made the hollow, 
burned-out logs collapse, and fall with a soft, 
rustling noise on the hearth. The cheery blaze 
that had lighted up the room with flickering, 
dancing gleams died out, and only the dying 
embers remained to keep me company. A film 
of feathery gray ashes gathered slowly over the 
fading brightness, and over my heart, left to 
its own musings, crept the gray shadow of doubt 
and desolation. A sweet, girlish face with true, 
steadfast eyes rose unbidden out of the fiery 
depths of the dying fire, but the vision brought 
only pain and a fiercer gnawing of the hunger at 


124 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


my heart. In the future would that fair face, 
crowned with all the tender grace of maidenhood, 
be still only a vision or a possession ? a household 
angel around my hearth or the light and inspira- 
tion of some other home ? 


CHAPTER XI. 

Slowly the days of that week wore past. 
Mechanically I went through the usual routine, 
but the mainspring of action seemed broken — the 
old life dead. 

Between my work and myself, between other 
men and myself a gulf had suddenly yawned. 
Across the chasm they lived and labored as here- 
tofore, but we no longer touched. The cares and 
details of their lives had grown remote as a star. 
Even business interests had lost their old-time 
value. 

Restlessly I waited for Saturday. In a week 
what might not have happened ? Measured by 
the slow sv/ing of the pendulum, only a few days 
had passed ; measured by the beat of a human 
heart, a life-time of feeling lay between. 

Love is ever apprehensive, and it was with 
eager gladness, not unmixed with pain, that at the 
end of that week I turned my horse’s head towards 
Hopetown. 

125 


126 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


The afternoon had all the ideal loveliness of a 
June day, framed by the wild beauty of a Rocky 
Mountain canon. Clear bracing air distilled to 
crystalline purity in nature’s alembic, filled and 
intoxicated one with the buoyancy of rare wine ; 
and* the ride down the canon was like passing from 
room to room of some great picture-gallery. Evei^ 
turn in the endless windings and twistings of the 
picturesque gallery was a beautiful surprise. 

Occasionally in the distance further progress 
would seem to be checked by some towering mass 
of rock jutting across the pathway ; but nearer 
approach would ever open up fresh vistas of 
grandeur. The seemingly insurmountable barrier, 
like the magic mango tree of the Hindoo, would 
mysteriously vanish, and the sinuous creek and 
canon still claim their time-honored right of way. 

Fantastic rocks inlaid with colored arabesques 
of shaded granite, or tinted with the exquisite col- 
ors of the lichens, lined this rugged aisle, twisted 
and contorted by the earth agonies of long ago. 

Here rounded mountain masses heaved their 
mighty shoulders against the background of deep 
fathomless blue, their shattered peaks forming 
pinnacles, parapets, buttresses. Regiments of 
pine peopled those still fastnesses, their waving 
plumes nodding warrior-like, far aloft in the sum- 
mer breeze. At intervals gentle slopes and 
terraces, gay with many hued blossoms softened 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


127 


the rugged grandeur, transforming the bleak hill- 
sides into veritable gardens. 

Truly as the beauty of some strong, homely face 
comes to us only after years of close acquaintance, 
does the nameless witchery and grandeur of these 
mysterious canons come and grow on the hearts of 
■ those who love them. 

As I drew rein opposite “ Rest-A -While,” my 
eye caught a glimpse of Marian sitting in a shady 
recess of the rocks, reading. Dismounting and 
opening the gate, I advanced noiselessly over the 
grass, Pete following like a dog at my heels. 

When within a few feet of her retreat, the click 
of one of the horse’s iron shoes on a stone caused 
her to look up with a sudden start. I had caught 
her as I wished to do, off guard ; but the fair, sweet 
face betrayed nothing. A look of genuine pleas- 
ure brightened the expression, and the greeting 
was kindly, even cordial ; but the subtle something 
I hoped to see written there was lacking. Although 
prepared in a measure for its absence, the sense 
of disappointment was keen as a knife thrust. 
Crumbs of friendship I knew could never satisfy 
the great hunger gnawing like a living thing at 
my heart, and that was her only offering. 

I was so absorbed in my book,” she said, “ I 
did not hear you coming.” Evidently something 
peculiar in the intensity of my look struck her as 
unusual, for the delicate color deepened in her 


128 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


cheek, and she went on somewhat nervously, 
** Why do you look at me so strangely ? Is any- 
thing wrong ? ” 

“ Nothing at all,’* I answered with a smile ; 
what made you think there was ? ” 

The expression of your face and your silence. 
Do you know. Uncle Phil,” she continued, ‘‘if it 
were not for your smile I should be almost afraid 
of you. Your face is always so grave, almost 
stern, and you are so reserved. One never knows 
what you think of anything or anybody, at least I 
never do. Although it seems as if I had known 
you all my life, I don’t understand you.” 

“ Marian,” I said, “ I have a favor to ask. Please 
don’t call me Uncle Phil any more.” 

The eyes, clear as a mountain stream, through 
whose transparent depths each pebble is outlined, 
opened wide, revealing as plainly in their dark 
depths the feelings outlined in the heart beneath. 
Surprise not unmixed with pain dimmed their soft 
light, and her lip quivered slightly, as if the sensi- 
tive nature vibrated painfully at the words. “ Why 
Uncle,” — she stopped short; “excuse me, I don’t 
know what to call you. What have I done that 
you don’t wish me to use that old familiar title 
that we all use and love } ” 

“Nothing, Marian, nothing, child,” was my reply. 
“ I would rather you would call me simple Philip. 
That is all. It seems to bring us nearer, — you 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


129 


and 1.” The flood of passionate feelings was ris- 
ing so fiercely within I hardly dared speak, lest 
rash words might rush forth and betray my secret 
The time for that had not yet come, I felt. Would 
it ever? For it is with feelings as with waters, 

“ The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.” 

don’t understand,” Marian went on. ‘‘Uncle 
seems to give us all a claim on you, make you one 
of the family. I know it brings you nearer to 
me.” 

“Well, Marian,” I said, “call it a whim if you 
like, but please humor me in this matter. Some 
day perhaps I shall tell you the reason.” 

“ Can’t you tell me now ? ” she asked. 

“No, not now.” 

‘' How mysterious you are over a trifle,” she 
exclaimed. “I can’t understand you. How 
strange and unnatural it will seem ; and what do 
you suppose papa and mamma will think?” She 
looked at me inquiringly. 

“Tell them,” I said, “that I don’t want you to 
call me Uncle, because it makes me feel old.” 

“Oh, is that the reason ?” she inquired wonder- 
ingly. “ I never would have believed you would 
have cared for a thing like that. It doesn’t seem 
like you.” 

Even at the risk of being misunderstood and 
belittled a notch or two in her estimation, I could 
not give the true explanation, neither could I again 


130 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


bear to have her address me by the old familiar 
title. 

With a puzzled expression on her frank face, 
she turned to the horse feeding close by and 
began caressing him. A few moment’s awkward 
pause, and I loosened the tension by asking, 
*‘How would you like to take a ride this evening } ” 

“ I should like it very much indeed,” she replied 
eagerly, “if mamma has no objection.” 

“We’ll find out if she has,” I said. “If not I’l] 
get a gentle horse, and we’ll take a ride up Pine 
Tree Gulch after supper.” 

Like a happy child eager for an outing she 
darted off in search of her mother, and in a few 
moments they returned together. The consent 
was easily obtained, and after a little further chat 
I remounted and rode down the canon, to stable 
Pete and arrange for another horse. 

On my return I found John there. Saturday 
afternoon’s indescribable atmosphere once more 
filled the house. 

He was looking younger and happier than I had 
seen him look for years. The tired lines round 
the mouth and eyes were not so deep. A certain 
air of restfulness seemed to possess him. 

“How well you’re looking,” I exclaimed, as we 
shook hands. “You’re renewing your youth, 
John.” 

“Happiness is a great beautifier, you know,” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


131 


said Mrs. Howard, and her face was radiant as she 
spoke. “ Something happened this week that has 
made him feel better than he has done for years. 
Can you guess what } ” 

Yes, I guess he has sold the mine.” 

How smart you are,” she responded, laughing. 

How could you come so near the truth without 
an instant’s reflection .? ” 

“Oh, business worries are the only snags in 
John’s life,” was my laughing reply, “and business 
guesses in this country all run in one channel.” 

“Well,” she went on brightly, “he has not 
quite sold the mine, but has had a good offer and 
accepted it. Isn’t that enough to make us all look 
and feel young ? ” 

Holding out my hand to John I wrung his, con- 
gratulating him with a heart too full for words. 

“Some St. Louis parties were up this week to see 
me,” he said quietly. “ They had heard of the 
strike. . The appearance of the mine and ore 
suited them, and before leaving they made me a 
fair proposition which I accepted. The papers 
are to be drawn out this week, and by the end of 
the month they will have possession.” 

“ Is it a cash sale ? ” I asked. 

“ Largely so, and the parties are perfectly reli- 
able. I have known of them for some time — by 
reputation.” 

A simple transaction, a piece of property chang- 


I 


132 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


ing hands ; but oh, the difference to these tired 
burden bearers. Out of the rifted clouds the sun- 
shine of the long-worked and waited-for success 
seemed about to fall, and beyond the gray, 
monotonous round of drudgery, stretched a vista 
of happy possibilities. 

The present outlook for mining industries is 
so uncertain,” continued John,” that I shall be 
glad to sever my connection with them for a time 
at any rate.” 

While you discuss the silver question,” said 
Mrs. Howard, “I’ll get supper ready.” 

“Yes do, mother,” exclaimed John, “I’m as 
hungry as a bear. Nothing like baching all 
week to give a fellow an appetite. What’s the 
news, Phil } Haven’t seen a paper since Sunday.” 

“ Oh, nothing much, same old story. The 
people in the East, judging by the newspapers, 
are as bitterly opposed to free coinage as ever. 
They seem possessed with the idea that the West 
in demanding it is actuated by selfish motives 
only.” 

“Well, ’’John said, “when we take into considera- 
tion the location of the silver mines in this country, 
perhaps from an eastern stand-point that view is 
not to be wondered at. The silver question is 
assuredly a vital one for us. More than a million 
of people out West are dependent directly or in- 
directly on this industry, and its destruction, or 


THE STORY OF A CA^OM. 


133 * 


6ven curtailment, would mean serious loss and 
misery to many western communities. Destruc- 
tion of silver as money would be practically de- 
struction of large tracts of country.” 

“Colorado, however,” I interrupted, “is not 
wholly dependent on her silver mines. She has 
other resources.” 

“ That is true,” he acknowledged, “ but you 
cannot develop the resources of vast areas in a 
month or a year. Time and preparation are 
needed to mature and gather the fruits of any 
new enterprise. While they are developing, what 
are people whose homes and interests lie out 
here going to do } We have to live meantime, 
and if the source of our living be cut off, and no 
other supplied, unimagined contraction and misery 
will inevitably follow. Our main-stay in these 
mountains has always been, and of necessity ever 
must be, silver. To destroy that would be like 
taking away the strength and usefulness of a 
strong man, and indirectly the disastrous effects 
on the whole state would be as great.” 

“Under such circumstances,” I said, “is it any 
wonder if the feeling on this subject in mining 
communities is intense even to bitterness } ” 

“No,” John answered, “and hasty, intemperate 
words ought to be forgiven at such a time. 
When you touch a man’s pocket-book, you touch a 
very sensitive point ; and if fellows dependent on 


. 134 THjk STORY OF A CANON. 

mining for their bread and butter are carried 
away by the force of their convictions into 
slightly sulphurous regions, it’s only human. 
When a man sees ruin and possible starvation 
looming in the distance, or imagines he does, and 
realizes that these calamities are brought about 
through no dispensation of Providence or fault of 
his own, but solely through unwise, revolutionary 
legislation, the injustice of it is apt to make him 
rebellious, and maybe cause him to boil over in 
wild, bitter words.” 

'^The trouble,” I suggested, “is just this; it’s 
hard to put ourselves in other men’s tight shoes, 
and make allowances for them when we don’t feel 
the pinch ourselves. 

“Ya’,” John assented, “if a two hundred 
pounder is down on somebody else’s corns, you 
can afford to talk like a philosopher, tell him to 
grin and bear it. 

“ I know,” he went on, in his kindly, thought- 
ful way, “that our advocacy of silver seems to 
outsiders a personal matter. It is that, but it is 
a great deal more. The West is just as patriotic 
as the East, and has no desire to build up her 
own section at the expense of another. She 
honestly believes that what is good for her is 
just as good for all the other states, and as much 
of a necessity for their eventual prosperity. I 
can conscientiously say that the world necessity 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


135 


for free coinage is as self-evident to me as the 
flash of lightning is.” 

“ Don’t you believe,” I said, that the feeling 
on the silver question in many communities 
arises more from prejudice than from anything 
else ? ” 

‘‘I do,” he answered, “and we all know what 
a great team prejudice and ignorance make, when 
they take the bit in their teeth. Reason, or even 
common sense haven’t much show to control 
such a runaway. It’s a great misfortune for 
the cause of bimetallism, that this idea of sec- 
tionalism has been fastened on to it. The silver 
question is not a sectional one, but is as broad as 
the nation, aye, as the world. The adoption of 
the single gold standard would be quite as dis- 
astrous for other parts of the country as for this ; 
yet we’re heading that way, and on sunken rocks 
too.” 

“ There is not enough gold in the world to do 
business with,” I interrupted. “ It has been 
proven that the annual supply available for coin- 
age is not sufficient to meet the demands of the 
ever increasing commerce and population.” 

“No,” John said, “and one metal is not suffi- 
cient base for the mountain of credit it would 
have to support. The thing to be desired above 
all others in financial matters is stability, and the 
greatest misfortune that can befall a nation, finan- 


136 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


cially, is a steadily appreciating standard or 
measure of values. This is just what is taking 
place. Gold is constantly and steadily appre- 
ciating, and as a natural consequence silver, the 
poor man’s money, is as certainly depreciating 
and everything with it.” 

I said, “the best standard is the one that 
fluctuates the least, then unquestionably a double 
standard would be safer, less liable to variation, 
than a single one.” 

“It would seem so,” John answered. “Gold 
monometallists and their representatives, east- 
ern papers, are continually making sneering 
allusions to the dishonest dollar. Is it not 
just as fair to apply that title to a gold coin 
that is constantly rising in value, as to a silver 
one that is steadily falling, especially when one 
remembers that the appreciation of the one is 
the direct cause of the depreciation of the other 
The demand for gold is making it scarcer, and 
of course more valuable, and this result will be 
more and more apparent as the years roll on. 
This rise in the value of gold, brought about un- 
questionably by the demonetization of silver, has 
already enormously increased the wealth of its 
comparatively few possessors, and reduced the 
value of all other property in a corresponding 
ratio. Unfortunately the class benefited is just 
the class that needs it least, the rich money 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


137 


loaners and creditors ; and the class injured is the 
one already too heavily handicapped in life, the 
wage-earners and debtors. Political economists 
and the leading financiers of the world are every- 
where agreed on the desirability of bimetallism, 
if nations are to be prosperous and happy.” 

“Unless,” I suggested, “they are what they 
wish silver to become, merely a commodity to be 
bought and sold to the highest bidder.” 

“Well,” John acknowledged, “that is among 
the possibilities, and the fact that so many will 
sell themselves, their votes, their convictions 
even, is to me one of the saddest, most discour- 
aging signs of the times. This passion for money, 
at any cost, seems like an epidernic, and once 
fastened on to a man kills the nobility, the in- 
herent manliness of his nature, as effectually as 
would the passion for strong drink. The price 
he pays is too high for what he gets. The for- 
tune is not worth the price paid for it.” 

“If,” I interposed, “as you say the single gold 
standard has been spreading wide and general 
destruction, sweeping old land-marks off the 
face of the earth, and if the people don’t want 
such a monetary system, why do we have to 
have it ? ” 

“Nine-tenths of the world do not want it,” was 
the answer, “ but tlie bankers of London say we 
must accept it, the bankers of this country re- 


138 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


echo the cry, and by the power of her money 
England holds us to this idea.” 

I Don’t you suppose the United States is able 
to carry out her own financial policy without wait- 
ing for European co-operation ? ” I asked. 

“If she is not,” John retorted, “then I am mis- 
taken in her powers. She is strong enough to do 
anything she wills to do, to set instead of follow- 
ing examples. History has demonstrated this 
truth, that wherever luxury enters it effeminates. 
Hannibal was invincible till the enervating influ- 
ences of Campania and comfort relaxed the 
muscles and wills of his army. The Delilah 
that has shaven the locks of our American 
Sampson, in financial high places, is love of 
money and its accompaniment, love of luxury. 

“Why,” he went on, “more than two-thirds 
of the world use silver, it’s their standard of 
value. If the United States would restore silver 
to its old place, as the twin money power of the 
world, she would put herself at the head of all 
silver using countries. Their trade would be 
hers. All South and North America, with Asia, 
would be very independent of Europe and her 
gold standard. England would be forced to 
change her monetary policy to suit the United 
States, as she changed it before to suit herself. 
She couldn’t afford to do anything else.” 

Just then Mrs. Howard came in from the ad- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


139 


joining kitchen. “ It’s not the first time Eng- 
land’s had to change her policy to suit us,” she 
exclaimed. “ The idea that this great American 
nation is not able to manage her own affairs to 
suit herself! It’s an insult even to suppose such 
a thing. There must be something far wrong if 
we have to shape our policy, financial or otherwise, 
to suit Great Britain. I thought the question of 
our independence from her was settled forever at 
the Revolution ; if it was not, maybe we need 
another.” 

John laughed. “ Why Mary, you’re getting your 
war-paint on. You didn’t know she was such a 
patriot, did you, Phil ? I can tell you she feels 
immensely superior to me, because I had the mis- 
fortune to be born in Scotland and not in the 
United States. I tell her I’m more of an Ameri- 
can than she is.” 

“ How do you make that out ? ” I asked. 

“Because,” he retorted, “she couldn’t help 
being one, and I could. My claim to citizenship 
does not come from the accident of birth, but 
from deliberate choice, and ought to count for 
more. The only kind thing I ever heard Mary 
say on the subject of my country was, ‘that if 
she had not been born in America, she would 
like to have been born in Scotland.’ ” 

“What nonsense you talk, John,” Mary replied. 
“ I know you’re as much an American as I am, 


140 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


and that is saying a good deal. You were born 
one on the other side. Many men are. A true 
American is a type of character ; and not a few 
born and brought up in this country are anything 
but American.” 

“Well,” John acknowledged, “if the spirit of 
her institutions does not possess the spirit of her 
citizens, they are assuredly Americans only in 
name.” 

“They are really English,” his wife continued, 
“and their greatest ambition is to copy the Eng- 
lish so closely as to be mistaken for the original. 
They not only import her goods and fashions, but 
her feudal relics and narrow, heathenish ideas of 
caste.” 

“Maybe that’s one reason,” suggested John, 
good-naturedly, “ that eastern people are so deter- 
mined to bring this country to the gold standard. 
That’s the English standard, ‘ don’t you know } ’ 
and of course ideas imported from that country 
must be superior to native ones.” 

“What do you suppose the founders of this 
republic would say,” asked Mrs. Howard, “if 
they were to return and see how things are going, 
how the wealthier classes are copying after Eng- 
land, toadying to her, proposing to alter even the 
very money of the country to suit her wishes ? ” 

“Jefferson, Hamilton, and the other inte-llectual 
giants of that period,” said John, musingly. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


141 


** established the currency of this country, and 
for eighty years none of the great statesmen who 
succeeded them ever thought of interfering with 
it ; but fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” 

“Do you remember,” inquired Mrs. Howard, 
“ the rule that the fathers of the republic recom- 
mended for the guidance of America in her deal- 
ings with England 1 ” 

“ No, don’t believe I ever heard of it,” an- 
swered her husband. 

“ They were statesmen, not politicians in those 
days, and their advice is worth heeding. It was 
this : ‘ What suits England does not suit us, and 
what does not suit England does suit us.’ Would 
that the mantle of these Elijahs might fall on the 
political prophets of to-day. They would see fur- 
ther along the hard road the toiling masses have 
to travel, and might make an easier highway for 
tired feet.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

Before supper was over the horses were at the 
door. Harry and Marjorie, full of excitement, 
begged to be excused, and on coming out we found 
them riding around the yard, Harry leading the 
strange horse with Marjorie perched on the sad- 
dle, and he riding mine. Near by, with an ap- 
proving grin on his good-natured face, stood the 
hostler, apparently a very interested spectator. 

Oh, dear! ” exclaimed Mrs. Howard, nervously, 
“do look at that child. Take her off, John; sup- 
pose the horse should run away.” 

“ Not the least fear of that, ma’am,” was the 
man’s quiet reply. “You couldn’t persuade that 
horse to do such a thing. He thinks too much of 
himself.” 

“ I’m glad he does,” said John. “ I’ll feel more 
comfortable while my daughter is gone.” 

“ And I am sorry, papa,” responded Marian. 
“ I hate an old poke that has no life in him. He 
looks handsome, anyhow,” she added, with a satis- 

142 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


143 


fied glance at the animal’s sleek coat ; ‘‘ don’t you 
think he does ? ’’ 

“ I’ll tell you better when you get back, what 
I think of him,” answered her father. “‘Hand- 
some is that handsome does ; ’ but you’d better get 
started. It’ll be dark soon.” 

“There will be a moon to-night,” I remarked, 
“so if we are a little late don’t be uneasy. You 
know she’s in safe hands.” 

The sun had already dropped behind a lofty 
peak, and as we turned our faces towards Hope- 
town the valley at our feet lay in shadow, while 
the upland still gleamed in the light of the hidden 
sun. For many miles a level road wound along 
the edge of the creek and through the wooded 
bottoms of Silver canon, gay now with the shaded 
greens of early summer. 

As we cantered down the narrow belt of wood- 
land, occasionally glancing up at the sunlit walls, 
through the branches we could see the golden tide 
ebbing slowly further and further up the moun- 
tain, leaving point after point stranded in cold 
desolation. 

“What a wonderful difference there is in the 
mountains before the light has faded from them, 
and after,” exclaimed Marian. 

“Yes,” I suggested, “much the same difference 
that there is in a grave, stern face lighted up with 
a smile, and the same face when the smile has 


144 


THE STORY OF A CANOH. 


vanished. The smile and the sunshine ofttimes 
reveal depths of tenderness and lines of beauty 
unseen before.” 

“ Had I never seen the mountains radiant in 
sunshine,” Marian went on, “ I don’t think I would 
ever have loved them as I do ; but now, even on 
the grayest day, they are always transfigured to 
me. How beautiful they are. Did you ever 
notice how they are crossed and recrossed with 
fine lines in every direction ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” I answered, “those are the trails 
leading to the various mines.” 

“I know that, of course,” she replied, “but at a 
distance it looks to me sometimes as if the very 
face of the mountains was seamed all over with 
lines of care. As I watch the miners climbing 
daily to and fro, up and down the criss-cross 
lines, I often think of Longfellow’s verse about 
men crossing the bridge, 

‘And I think how many thousands, 

Of care encumbered men, 

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,’ 

are forever crossing those endless trails. I often 
wish I understood more about the silver question,” 
she continued. “ It does seem as if everybody liv- 
ing West ought to study it a little. Don’t you think 
so ? We hear it spoken of so much.” 

“ Marian,” I said, laying a restraining hand on 
her bridle, “why don’t you address me by name ? 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


145 


This whole evening you have purposely omitted 
doing so. I have been conscious of a restraint in 
your manner. Is it such a hard matter to call me 
Philip.?” 

The honest eyes fell before mine, and the deli- 
cate color deepened in her cheeks as she replied, 

Yes, it is hard for me. I can’t make it seem 
natural, still if you insist I will do as you ask.” 

“Thank you. I do insist.” 

“Well, Philip, — is it true that the government 
of this country is more interested in the welfare of 
the manufacturers and bankers back East, than in 
the prosperity of the masses everywhere and the 
miners out West .? ” 

“That is a hard question to answer, Marian,” I 
said. “It does seem sometimes as if she was, and 
that a spirit of favoritism had been shown to cer- 
tain classes and sections — a spirit utterly foreign 
to the constitution. People out West feel that 
way at any rate, have reason for so feeling.- The 
interests of eastern manufacturers have always 
been protected by Congress, but not the interests 
of western producers.^' 

“And yet the miners belong to the United 
States as much as the manufacturers and bankers, 
don’t they, and need protection as much .? ” Marian 
queried. 

“Unquestionably,” I replied. “The govern- 
ment is supposed to represent the whole nation, 


146 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


not merely a privileged few. The country is a 
unit, and the interests of the East and West are 
identical. You cannot injure or neglect one sec- 
tion without the other suffering. If one part of a 
watch is injured the watch won’t keep time, won’t 
serve the end for which it was designed ; just so 
with a country. This is especially true of the sil- 
ver question. Its roots underlie every section.” 

“ How does the silver question affect the East ? ” 

“By demonetizing silver in 1873 its time-hon- 
ored money function was taken away, thus halving 
the money of the country and doubling the value 
of gold and* capital. The evil effect of that has 
been as severely felt by the farmer and working 
man East, as by the miner West, although in nine 
cases out of ten they have not ascribed their 
suffering to the right cause.” 

“ How did it affect them } ” Marian asked. 

“By injuring the value of whatever they pos- 
sessed, whether it were time, strength, products or 
property,” I answered.'" “Diminution in the quan- 
tity of money means diminution of everything 
else except misery and crime. It means less 
demand and lower prices for everything. Without 
abundance of money there can be no national 
prosperity, and increase of money must ever keep 
pace with increase of population and business. 
The supply must correspond to the demand, if 
good times are to be the order of the day.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


147 


‘^That seems resonable,” Marian said, “even I 
can understand that. I have often heard papa 
reading about the number of new tracks the rail- 
roads were laying in various directions, to supply 
their growing needs. Money is the track the 
everyday business runs on, and of course we ought 
to have more, not less, all the time.” 

“The cruel effect of this gold standard is partic- 
ularly hard on the debtor,” I said. 

“ Why on him particularly ? ” 

“ Because he agrees to pay his debt at a certain 
time, and when that time comes, owing to falling 
prices, he has to sacrifice a great deal more to meet 
his obligation than he would have had to do when 
he made the contract. That’s where the dishonest 
part of this monetary system, foisted on to the 
old established bimetallic standard of the United 
States, comes in. The creditor gets more than 
his bond really calls for, because money is worth 
more ; and the debtor has to sacrifice more than 
the written agreement demands, because his 
assets have shrunk in value, and it takes more of 
them to pay his debt. The written figures remain 
the same, but they don’t mean the same. They 
mean more dollars at the end of the year to the 
creditor, and more work or money from the debt- 
or to meet his obligation. These time contracts 
enter largely into the social as well as the indus- 
trial life of this age, and in an era of falling prices 


148 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


and shrinking values are a cruel injustice to all 
borrowers of money, forcing them into bankruptcy 
and paralyzing the wheels of trade. No amount 
of business foresight can so forecast the future, as 
accurately to gauge the deadly power of such a 
system. As one of the greatest economic thinkers 
says: *The rapacious and engorging power of an 
ever increasing value in the dollar, is a force that 
acts upon industrial society like a deadly but odor- 
less gas, which, because of its subtle character, 
escapes detection. In its methods it is as silent 
as time, yet as inexorable as death.’ ” 

^‘You spoke of the system of bimetallism as 
being an old established one,” Marian said ; “it is 
not a new idea then ? ” 

“ Certainly not. Bimetallism is no experiment. 
It is as old as the earliest civilizations, almost as 
the human race. The single gold standard is the 
experiment, and those who are trying to fasten it 
on this country are the revolutionists. It is they 
who have taken out the corner on which the nation 
was laid, thereby shattering the very foundations 
of society, and introducing changes in the body 
politic more radical than the wildest revolution- 
aries ever dreamed of. 

“And now suppose we quicken our pace a little, 
and use our eyes more and our minds less. These 
questions are too far-reaching to be discussed in 
an evening ride.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


149 


•Yes,” she assented eagerly, there are too 
many beautiful things to look at to bother about 
political economy to-night.” 

As we rode more rapidly down the canon, gorge 
after gorge, now on one side, now on the other, 
opened mysterious vistas into the rock-ribbed 
chambers of the mountains ; and at last, through a 
wider opening than usual, appeared the end of our 
excursion, — Pine Tree Gulch. Each ravine has its 
own characteristic beauty, and this narrow rift in 
the mountains had a charm all its own. It was 
narrow, only room for the noisy creek and winding 
road, then the precipitous cliffs closed in, their 
motley sides gleaming through a lattice work of 
shaded green leaves and many colored flowers. 
Thickets of wild roses, patches of brilliant blue 
blossoms, delicate harebells, golden hearted 
daisies, yellow flowers of every shade softened 
and brightened the rugged walls. From base to 
summit countless shrubs, laden with white flowers, 
grew in luxuriant beauty, looking in the far-away 
nooks like drifted snow ; and here and there the 
scarlet painter’s brush, relieved against a green or 
gray background, glowed like sparks of fire. At 
our feet tumbled and leaped the mountain torrent, 
seeming in its long foam-covered flight from 
higher regions like one continuous water-faVl. 
Alongside its rocky bed the road zigzagged stead- 
ily upwards, the changing bits of scenery succeed- 


150 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


ing each other as rapidly as the views in a magic 
lantern. Far aloft one solitary peak, towering 
above the rest, still glimmered in the fast fading 
sunlight; everywhere else the spirit of twilight 
possessed the little glen. 

As we climbed farther into the recesses of the 
hills the solitude deepened ; but to me, at least, it 
was a solitude filled with intensest happiness. 
Where Marian was, loneliness or pain could not 
be. Life was focused in the joyous present, and 
no thought of future contingencies marred that 
perfect hour. 

Far away down the valley sounded the whistle 
of the night train, borne for many miles in that 
clear air. Near by the metallic tinkle of some 
cow-bell broke the silence, sounding in that lonely 
spot more mysterious than horns from elf-land 
would have done. A sweet, pure face, and a 
sweeter nature had bewitched me, and we rode 
upon enchanted ground. Gladly would I have 
looked into that girlish heart and read the secrets 
written there, but courage failed. A gentle ret- 
icence ever surrounded Marian like an at- 
mosphere, and I feared to break through this 
subtle barrier. Transformed by the light from 
my own heart, she had become a new creation, 
and drifted from the land of childhood to the 
vaguely outlined shores of coming womanhood. 
Words seemed too coarse to embody the beauti- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 151 

ful truth that glowed like a flame in my heart, 
and while I hesitated waiting for some more 
delicate medium of expression, the opportunity 
was lost. Just ahead a huge mass of rock five 
hundred feet high curved suddenly across the 
road, apparently closing the valley with an insur- 
mountable barrier. The obstacle caught Marian’s 
eye, and she turned to me with an exclamation of 
wonder, reigning in her horse as she did so. 

‘‘I thought Pine Tree Gulch extended several 
miles into the mountains,” she said, “but this 
gulch ends here, or runs up a precipice. I am 
afraid without wings we can hardly go further.” 

“Trust your guide a little longer, Marian,” 
was my reply. “There is still room enough to 
take a good many steps before running up 
against a blind wall. Maybe when we have taken 
those, the way ahead will still be clear. One 
step more in this world often gives us an entirely 
new and wider outlook.” 

She looked incredulous, but took the hint and 
we proceeded. A few yards further on road and 
creek swerved suddenly to the left, and beyond 
the rocky promontory we could see the narrow 
glen winding onward and upward. Traces of the 
ever present miner became visible once more. 
The mountain sides grew bare and brown, holes 
and mounds of gray ore disfiguring their pictur- 
esque beauty. A little mining hamlet clung to 


152 • the story oe a canon. 


the steep slopes, looking as if a touch might pre- 
cipitate a land-slide. 

Here in this remote cleft in the rocks human 
beings were living, toiling, rejoicing, learning 
life’s lessons of patient industry and cheery 
submission. As we rode past the cluster of 
cabins, signs of home life were everywhere 
noticeable ; lace curtains and flowers at the 
windows, patches of garden, rosy-cheeked children 
at play, men and women at work, digging, plant- 
ing, making ready for the late summer. 

“ Who would have dreamt of finding such a 
settlement of people in this out of the way cor- 
ner,” Marian said. “They look as if they’d come 
to stay, too.” 

“ They have,” was my reply. “ Many of these 
families have been here for ten or twelve years, 
perhaps longer. They own their little homes, 
and so long as they can get a fair day’s pay for a 
hard day’s work, are content to live in exile. 
The future will atone for the past, they believe. 
They have been patiently sowing their seed all 
these many years, and are now waiting for the 
first fruits of the late harvest.” 

Marian’s eyes grew dim with a sudden mist as 
she looked at the group of cabins. The pathos in 
the lives of these lonely cliff-dwellers, struggling 
in this wilderness of rocks, struck a chord of 
sympathy in the tender, womanly heart. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


153 


“ What if they should never reap any harvest ?” 
she murmured softly. 

“ Oh, don’t let’s anticipate any such catas- 
trophe,” I said, “let’s hope for better times ; 
they’ve been traveling this highway for a long 
time, and it’s a long road, you know, that has no 
turn in it.” 

“ I suppose,” Marian said, “there are thousands 
of just such mining camps, scattered all over the 
canons and hill-sides of the mining states.”' 

“Yes, indeed,” I replied, “and if national legis- 
lation should ever paralyze their only industry, 
their future would be sad indeed. No more cruel 
outrage could be perpetrated on a defenseless 
people, than to compel them to leave their hard 
won homes and property, and go out into the 
world stripped of everything. Ah they have on 
earth lies right around them.” 

“Who talks of compelling them to leave their 
homes ^ ” asked Marian indignantly. 

“ Necessity would soon compel them, should 
silver go much lower,” I answered. “ Starvation 
would stare them in the face, and through no 
fault of their own. Many of them are well along 
in years, and effectually handicapped by age and 
infirmities from making a new start elsewhere. 
But, are you tired .? ” 

“Not at all ; this horse, if he is an old poke, is 
as easy as a rocking-chair. Why do you ask ? ” 


154 the story of A CANON. 

“An old friend of mine, Hugh McLean, lives 
about half a mile further on,” I said, “ and if you 
like we might ride as far as his cabin. He is 
worth going a long way to see, is more interesting 
and picturesque than any canon.” 

“ Oh I have heard papa speak of him ; he is a 
Scotchman, is he not } ” 

“Yes, he was born in Scotland, but has been 
in this country more that forty years.” 

“ Let us go by all means,” Marian assented, 
eagerly. 

A little more climbing and winding brought us 
in sight of his cabin. We found the old man 
busily engaged in his garden. A beautiful culti- 
vated oasis had he made in the dreary desert of 
rocks. Rich black soil brought from sheltered 
levels by the creek-side, the grave-yards of count- 
less generations of fallen leaves and flowers, made 
a fertile home for the vegetation of to-day. Tiny 
streams of water from a spring just above, guided 
into a net-work of channels through the garden, 
gave the needed life and refreshment. In the 
midst of the carefully tended beds and furrows, 
green with leafly promise, was Hugh McLean, 
looking as much a part of the grand whole as the 
eternal hills themselves. A large man with a 
noble head, covered with shaggy hair of snowy 
whiteness, and a face of singular benevolence, he 
seemed more like a patriarch of old than a miner 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


155 


of to-day. Like most men of unusual size, his 
carriage was full of dignity ; and though poorly 
clad, his simple personality attracted and im- 
pressed the most superficial. Instinctively you 
tried to be your best when in his company, and 
usually succeeded. No one trifled with Hugh 
McLean ; the most arrogant would not have dared 
to insult or patronize him, yet a little child 
or a dumb animal would fearlessly seek his 
protection. 

On introducing Marian he looked up with keen 
interest, and inquired, “Is this John Howard’s 
daughter ^ ” 

“Yes,” I replied, “John’s oldest daughter.” 

“ I am very happy to meet you. Miss Howard. 
I have known your father for a great many years. 
Ye’ve got lots to be thankfu’ for, if ye come o’ a 
faimily like that. It’s a grand start in life for ony 
body to hae a gude father and mother an’ come o’ 
a gude stock.” 

“You are evidently a believer in heredity,” I 
remarked. 

“ I am that,” he responded ; “ it’s a great blessin’ 
to be weel born. A gude mony folk come into 
this world wi’ the half, or maybe mair, o’ their 
naters mortgaged to the deevil, an’ the best pairt 
o’ their lives is spent tryin’ to redeem themsel’s, 
wi’ the help o’ God, frae that claim. Ye hannae 
inherited mony incumbrances o’ that kind. Miss 


ue the story of a caj7oh. 

Marian ; see ye dinna pit them on your ainsel’, 
an’ lat the power o’ ony sin get a mortgage on ye.” 

This style of conversation being out of her 
usual experience, Marian was at a loss how to 
reply in the same strain, so changed the subject 
by remarking: “What a lovely garden you have, 
Mr. McLean. It is such a beautiful surprise to 
come on it here among the rocks. How could 
you get things to grow so luxuriantly ? ” 

“Oo, jist coaxed them. Honest work an’ per- 
severance wi’ some thinkin’ mixed in, are big per- 
suaders, an’ whiles bring about great results. 
This is true whether you’re tryin’ to mak a garden 
on a bleak hill-side or in yer heart.” 

“ It’s more like a creation than a growth, in such 
a desert as this, is it not } ” I said. 

“To answer that question properly, might lead 
us into the region of metaphysics,” was the 
humorous reply, his blue eyes twinkling in their 
deep sockets as he spoke ; “ but at any rate, crea- 
tion or no’, it’s been a great companion to me. 
Mony a sermon has it preached. Ilka simmer it’s 
been another John the Baptist cryin’ in the wilder- 
ness its God-given message. I’m sorry there’s 
nae flowers oot noo. Miss Marian. Come again 
in another month, an’ ye can tak hame a’ ye can 
carry.” 

“Thank you, Mr. McLean, I shall surely come,” 
she answered. “ Perhaps you can give me some- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


157 


thing, even more beautiful than a flower, to carry 
away. How long is it since you came to Silver 
Creek } that is the name of this mining town, is it 
not.?” 

“ I niver cam’ to it,” was the characteristic 
reply, ** it cam’ to me. There wasna a house in 
this gulch when I built my log-cabin here thirty 
years ago.” 

“ I suppose you’ve no church near here,” Marian 
said. 

That depends on what ye ca’ a church. The 
Bible says, ‘ Where two or three are met together 
in God’s name He has promised to be wi’ them.’ 
We’ve ta’n Him at his word, an’ ivery Sunday 
twenty or thirty worshipers meet at ane o’ the 
cabins in the bit minin’ camp doon by, an’ the 
promise has niver been broken yet. Mony a 
time the presence o’ the Lord has been mair real 
to me in a room like that, than my neebor on the 
next chair. The veil atween was verra thin, an’ 
His glory was roun’ us likes the bonny sun- 
shine.” 

The old man’s face shone as he spoke. Instinct- 
ively you felt that his words were the genuine 
outcome of the man. Words and character were 
woven in one consistent piece throughout. 

“We dinna’ forget the lambs, either,” he went 
on ; “ after the meetin’s over we hae Sunday- 
school an’ tell them o’ the heavenly sheep fauld 


158 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


that’s waitin’ fo’ us a’ if we’ll but follow the gude 
shepherd here.” 

“ How I wish I might be one of the lambs,” 
said Marian. Already the spiritual affinity be- 
tween these two had made itself felt, and they 
were no longer strangers. 

Mr. McLean, will you come and spend a Sun- 
day with us?” she asked, impulsively. ^‘Come 
some Saturday and stay till Monday.” 

He looked at her hesitatingly, ere replying in 
his usual deliberate fashion, “Thank you. Miss 
Marian, it’s kind o’ 'ye to ask me, but I canna 
promise to do that. I never gang a veesetin’, — 
never leave hame onless business jis’ mak’ 
me.” 

“ Please make an exception for once,” was the 
pleading answer, “ we will be so glad to see you at 
our house. To oblige me, won’t you promise to 
come ? ” 

“Weel, maybe, sometime,” he answered, with 
evident reluctance. 

“ Can’t you come a week from to-night ? ” she 
persisted. 

Rather against his will, we persuaded the old 
gentleman to break the long habit of years and 
visit us. Changes in the even flow of his tranquil 
life were disturbing elements, and from the stand- 
point of personal feeling, needed to be avoided. 
The promise finally coaxed out of him, we bade 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


159 


him good-night and turned our horses’ heads 
homeward. 

The moon had risen, and was flooding the nar- 
row gorge with intensest light. Every object 
was outlined in the clear, white radiance with 
startling distinctness, and the mountain tops 
seemed etched against the sky with a finger of 
light. The rugged face of the cliffs, the gro- 
tesque shapes of the towering rocks, the wild 
confusion of bowlders were irradiated and trans- 
figured. The shining creek glistened under the 
white shimmer, the recesses and chasms, the hol- 
lows filled with pine, became dark mysteries. 
Everywhere in the luminous whiteness rocks and 
trees crystallized into new forms of beauty, and 
the little glen in its delicate loveliness seemed 
filled with “frozen music.” Truly until one has 
seen those picturesque labyrinths of the Rocky 
Mountains by moonlight, he has not seen them at 
all. But two elements are needed to make such 
an experience ideal, — ”a horse to the mountains 
born,” and “a bonnie bonnie lassie” with whom 
one is deeply in love. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

As we rounded the elbow of the hill overlooking 
Hopetown, “ Rest-A-While ” came in sight, its 
windows flashing like burnished shields in the 
white shimmer of the moon. On the porch enjoy- 
ing the lovely night sat Mr. and Mrs. Howard, and 
on the top step, clearly visible in the bright light, 
reclined the familiar form of Charlie Hey wood. 
Tied to the fence in front was his horse. 

Mrs. Howard apparently was the first to catch 
sight of us, and in her usual pleasant fashion came 
forward to the edge of the road to meet us. 

“ Glad to see you back safe,” she said. “ We 
were beginning to feel a little anxious. Where 
have you been all this time ? ” 

*^Oh, mamma,” exclaimed Marian, in her eager 
impetuosity ignoring her mother’s question, “ we 
have had the loveliest ride I ever had in all my 
life, and besides have met the loveliest old gentle- 
man I ever saw. I just lost my heart to him.” 

I’m glad he’s an old gentleman,” interrupted 
160 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


161 


John, dryly, “the case is not quite so alarming. 
He must be something extraordinary to merit such 
praise. ‘ The loveliest old gentleman I ever saw,’ ” 
he articulated in measured tones, as if holding up 
each joint of the sentence for judicial examina- 
tion. “Well, well. What are the young ladies 
of the present day going to do, I wonder, for a lan- 
guage rich enough to express their deeper emo- 
tions. They’ve outgrown this one. Every trifling 
experience calls forth impassioned superlatives, 
and language with the rising generation is fast 
ceasing to have much meaning.” 

“Now, papa dear, don’t scold any more,” Mar- 
ian retorted, brightly. “ I didn’t exaggerate this 
time.” While this badinage had been going on I 
had lifted Marian from the saddle, and turned the 
horses’ heads towards Hopetown. With many a 
clumsy caper and plunge my horse set off at a 
gallop for the stables, followed more soberly by the 
other. 

Meantime Charlie Heywood had not spoken. As 
Marian reached the foot of the steps, she paused, 
and looked at him a little curiously, I fancied. 

“Good evening, Charlie.” 

The moonlight shone full on his handsome face 
and form. He looked as handsome as any Apollo 
Belvedere could have looked, but unmistakably he 
was an Apollo badly out of humor. The “good 
evening ” that came in response to her greeting 


162 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


came reluctantly, and in tone matched well the 
sullen expression of his face. 

Marian was ever straightforward in all her deal- 
ings, so I was not surprised to hear her ask, 
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?” 

“ Sick ? No, I’m never sick,” was the curt 
rejoinder. 

John here interrupted the conversation by 
inquiring gravely : “ Who is this wonderful old 
gentleman you met to-night ?” 

I could see he was displeased. Outward mani- 
festation of inner disturbance, particularly of the 
temper, was singularly repugnant to his self-con- 
tained nature and seemed childish. Concealment 
of moods with him was not only a cultivated 
instinct, but a duty. 

“ Mr. McLean, papa,” was Marian’s reply. 

“Oh, Hugh McLean,” her father answered. 
“Well, he is a grand old man. I’m not sure you 
deserve a scolding after all, but you can keep it 
for future occasions. You’ll need it before long.” 

“ Why are you so particular about a little exag- 
geration, papa? What harm is there in it any- 
way ? ” Marian asked. 

“Well,” her father answered, “it has the ring 
of insincerity about it, for one thing, and if you 
make use of the strongest language for the most 
trifling experiences, what can you use for the 
greatest ? ” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


163 


Look here, John,” I said, coming to the rescue, 
“do you think there is any such thing as absolute 
accuracy in the ordinary conversation of to-day ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think there is,” he acknowledged, 
“and I don’t expect anybody to measure their 
words with a tape-line every time they open their 
mouths. I don’t do it myself, sure ; but its this 
sentimental, senseless gush that so many young 
people indulge in, that I complain of.” 

Did you ever stop to think about the reasons 
for this' exaggerated style ” I asked. 

“No, I never thought anything about it,” he 
replied. 

“A good deal of it arises from thoughtlessness,” 
I said ; “a bad habit, that’s all, a good deal from 
ignorairce, but most of all, I think, from the pov- 
erty of language of the speakers. Their vocabu- 
lary is so limited, that they have to fall back on a 
lot of ‘ stock phrases ’ to eke out their scanty 
store. Exaggeration in many cases is just a kind 
of verbal cant.” 

“ Maybe that’s the reason I dislike it so,” John 
said, “ for religious cant always did rouse the very 
devil in me.” 

“ Which class do I belong to ? ” inquired Marian 
archly, “the ignorant or the poverty stricken ? ” 

“Neither,” I answered; “I should class you 
among the thoughtless ones, saddled with a bad 
habit.” 


164 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*‘At the present extravagant rate,” John went 
on, “language will soon lose its meaning; in fact, 
on the lips and even the pens of many, it has 
already done so. Words will be like the money of 
the world, there won’t be enough to do business 
with, certainly not enough for the exchange of 
genuine sentiment.” After a pause, turning to 
Marian, he said : “And so you liked my old 
friend ? ” 

“Very much indeed, papa,” Marian answered. 
“ He made me feel somehow as I do after reading 
Isaiah or Revelations. I often don’t understand 
the thought, but the very sound of the words do 
me good, — have an uplifting influence,” she added 
shyly. “ I don’t understand Mr. McLean, but he 
was an inspiration all the same. He is coming 
next Saturday to stay with us over Sunday. I am 
so glad. You will like him ever so much, mam- 
ma.” ^ 

“Did Mr. McLean promise he’d come ” asked 
John. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, if he did, that settles it. He’ll keep his 
word, but I never knew him to go a-visiting.” 

“ He’s a great deal more Scotchy than you are, 
papa,” Marian said, “ and talks very differently. 
Why is that, I wonder .? ” 

“ He has led a very different life,” was her 
father’s reply, “ a more isolated one, and,” with a 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


165 


comical look in the direction of his wife, “ McLean 
didn’t marry a Yankee. But if he wants to he 
can talk as good English as anybody. Outside of 
his accent there’s nothing remarkable about his 
speech unless he happens to get excited. Now 
let’s go in-doors, it’s getting chilly.'” 

“ I must be going,” Charlie said, rising. ‘‘ It’s 
getting late.” 

“ Won’t you come in for a little ? ” urged Marian. 

You often stay later than this.” 

“No, thank you, not to-night,” was the answer, 
and the words were as perceptibly cool as the 
evening breeze floating down the glen. He rose, 
bade us all good-night and started for the gate. 
Marian looked troubled. She was naturally gentle 
and peace loving. Any want of harmony and 
good feeling in her own circle of friends, jarred on 
her sensitive nature like a false note in music. 
Charlie and his moods were no new experience, 
but as a usual thing, with a certain sweet mother- 
liness she humored and coaxed him out of them. 
The chords of the unselfish, sympathetic nature 
vibrated ever with a music sweet enough to exor- 
cise the evil demon that sometimes possessed the 
wayward youth. To-night there was no opportu- 
nity for this, and evidently the abrupt leave-taking 
pained her. 

As Charlie reached the spot where his horse 
was tied, the creature started back as far as the 


166 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


reins would permit, straining nervously at the 
strap. In the moonlight we could see the white 
of the eyeballs, and the look of intense and fright- 
ened interest with which she watched her master’s 
every movement. Muttering an inaudible some- 
thing and jerking angrily at the bridle, Charlie 
pulled her forward by main strength and struck 
her a heavy blow. In another second he was in 
the saddle and disappearing down, the road in a 
cloud of dust. 

*‘What is the matter with Charlie to-night.?” 
asked Marian, wonderingly. 

** Ill-temper, that’s what’s the matter,” answered 
her father. “You were out riding with Philip, 
and that made him mad. Charlie Heywood is a 
fine speciman of a man physically, but spirit and 
body don’t match very well. He is governed to- 
day by the same animal motives that he was when 
a child, and yields to them as recklessly.” 

Marian was always loyal to her friends ; being 
John Howard’s daughter she could not well be 
otherwise. True to this instinct, words of defense 
came quickly. Papa, you have always misunder- 
stood Charlie,” she said; “he is very sensitive and 
cannot hide his feelings as many others can.” 

“Who hurt his feelings to-night?” asked her 
father. As Marian did not reply, John went on : 
“ His own selfish, exacting nature alone upset 
him.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


1G7 


suspect,” said Mrs. Howard, gently, “that 
jealousy had a good deal to do with his petulance 
to-night, and as jealousy is only the wrong side of 
love, we’ll have to forgive him.” 

“If he is so sensitive himself,” John exclaimed, 
“ a fellow-feeling ought to teach him consideration 
for others. The way that pony started back when 
he went near her to-night, and showed the white 
of her eyeballs like a scared nigger, was a caution 
and told its own story. There was a history back 
of that little incident, don’t you forget it, and if 
you could read the back numbers maybe you’d 
think there was more than sensitiveness the 
matter.” 

A curious look of obstinate unbelief clouded 
Marian’s face as she listened to her father’s words. 
Evidently they did not impress with their usual 
weight. “ Charlie is quick tempered, I know,” she 
acknowledged, “but he means all right. He can’t 
help feeling moody and irritable when things go 
wrong.” 

“He can help showing all he feels, though, on 
every trifling occasion,” was her father’s reply. 
“Thoughts and feelings not embodied in words 
and deeds don’t hurt anybody, and soon die for 
want of out-door exercise. It is his utter want of 
reserve, his almost brutal frankness of expression 
that I complain of. He claims the privilege of 
thrusting the sharp edges of his own personality 


168 


THE STORY OF A CAAHN. 


into everybody’s face, but no one else must exer- 
cise the same right. The trouble is, Charlie has 
no self-control and is too selfish to make the 
needed effort to acquire it.” 

“ How do you know he doesn’t make any effort ^ ” 
inquired Marian, the color deepening in her cheek 
as she spoke. “ I think he does.” 

Surely a marvellous change had come over her 
spirit thus to enter into a dispute with her idol- 
ized father, whose words heretofore had been an 
unquestioned law. He realized the significance of 
the incident, as we all did, and I could see that it 
pained him. With a look of grave displeasure, 
most unusual on his kindly face, he rose from his 
chair and started to go in-doors. Pausing for an 
instant on the threshold, he looked earnestly at 
his daughter and said ; “ I am sorry to notice your 
growing friendship for Charlie ; believe me, he is 
not worthy of it.” 

During this conversation Marian had remained 
standing, leaning against the side of the porch. 
In the white light of the moon her graceful figure 
in the tight fitting riding habit looked ethereal, 
her profile, outlined against the pillar, standing 
out like a fine cameo. A look of obstinacy shad- 
owed and marred the otherwise perfect face at 
that moment, destroying its usual sweet expres- 
sion and the poise of the lifted head, with its air 
of proud defiance, reminded one of a deer at bay. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


169 


Across some fathomless current of human feeling 
she seemed to have drifted, and to be standing 
there in cold isolation. 

As her father disappeared she turned quickly, 
gathered up the folds of her habit in her slender, 
flexible fingers, and prepared to follow. 

‘‘I seem to be in a minority to-night,” she said 
lightly, *‘so I had better leave.” Stooping she 
kissed her mother as she spoke. Mrs. Howard 
laid a gentle, detaining hand on hers. ^‘Neither 
Philip nor I have said anything, Marian.” 

Not in words perhaps, mamma, but I could 
feel your thoughts just as clearly as if you had 
spoken them. You are thoroughly in sympathy 
with papa, and I think you are all unjust to Char- 
lie, but we won’t say any more about it. Good- 
night.” Holding out her disengaged hand to me, 
she added : “ Good-night, Philip. Thank you for 
my pleasant ride. I enjoyed it very much.” Her 
heart was evidently full, and pride alone prevented 
an overflow in bitter tears. 

A few moments afterwards we, too, went in- 
doors. 

In the parlor, pacing uneasily up and down, we 
found John. Mrs. Howard went up to him and 
slipped her arm through his, with a tender, com- 
forting gesture full of meaning. Her womanly 
sympathy was a ready interpreter and needed no 
words to enter into his feelings. He looked down 


170 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


at her like a man waking from a dream. “ What 
does this mean, Mary ? ” he asked. “How long 
has this thing been going on ? ” 

“ I don’t know that there is anything unusual 
going on,” was the quiet reply. “Marian has 
always liked Charlie, they have been friends from 
childhood.” 

“ She does more than like him now,” said John, 
with an anxious, troubled look that went to my 
heart, for I shared his suspicion. “She’s little 
more than a child,” he continued, “and yet if 
she’s not in love she’s on the very edge.” 

“That may be true,” replied his wife, “but if 
we don’t push her over by injudicious meddling, 
she may never get further than the edge. Many 
a young couple falls over the precipice into a 
foolish marriage for want of timely advice, but a 
good many more are driven over through too much 
interference and scolding. Young folks will stand a 
good deal of letting alone, as well as watching.” 

“ Seems to me that would be rather a dangerous 
idea for most people to get hold of,” I ventured to 
remark. “ The tendency of these days, according 
to my notion, is to letting children, and perhaps 
older folks, too much alone.” 

“Don’t misunderstand me,” responded Mrs. 
Howard; “the letting alone I mean involves the 
most intense watchfulness. Remember, I don’t 
mean neglect. Living, growing things cannot 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


171 


thrive under that, but they may do better under a 
wise letting alone than under a fussy interference. 
After all,” she added reverently, ‘‘does that not 
seem to be the plan the great Father works on 
with us ” 

“Yes,” I acknowledged, “it does seem so. In 
that case it may be the necessary condition for 
working out our own salvation, in reality the 
shortest cut to the desired end ; but Divine 
Wisdom is back of that. I still think it a dan- 
gerous doctrine for human beings to adopt.” 

“ I don’t profess to give rules for anybody else,” 
Mary said, “to judge for any one, only myself and 
my own little corner. We have always tried to 
implant principles in the children’s minds, and 
train their developing natures to cling to them. 
Marian’s instincts are all right. They are seeking 
the light, I believe, and in the end she will not 
make any grave mistake.” 

“Don’t you honestly believe, Mary,” John said, 
“ that Marian cares a great deal more for Charlie 
than friendship would warrant He looked at 
her keenly as he spoke. 

“ I don’t know what her feelings are,” was the 
smiling answer. 

“ Can’t you find out ? ” 

“ How ? ” 

“Ask her.” 

“ No, John, I cannot. To pry into the secrets 


172 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


of a young girl’s heart, like Marian, would be like 
forcing open the petals of a rose-bud to see what 
the coming flower looks like. You would learn 
nothing and would surely injure the perfect beauty 
of the hidden rose. Not even a mother has an 
instrument delicate enough for such dissection, 
or t/ie right to make it'" 

‘‘One thing is certain,” said John, decidedly, 
“ this intimacy must be stopped. I would rather 
see Marian dead, than the wife of a man like 
Charlie Hey wood. No spiritual relationship exists 
between the two, and by the eternal laws of mind, 
never can. Companionship under such circum- 
stances is an impossibility, and marriage to a girl 
of Marian’s sensitive nature would be a slow 
martyrdom, a hell on earth.” 

“Yet they seem to enjoy each other’s society 
now, to be thoroughly good friends,” I ventured to 
say. 

“That’s only a surface relationship,” was the 
answer, “ and propinquity is the cause of that as it 
is of half the marriages in the world. I am in 
earnest, Mary,” he continued, addressing his wife, 
“ this thing must be broken up, and the quickest 
way will be to ask Charlie, politely, of course, to 
stop coming here.” 

“Oh, no, John,” Mary exclaimed quickly, “that 
would never do. Marian would immediately begin 
to pity and idealize him, to feel that he was abused. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


173 


and out of the sympathy thus created a seeming 
love would be born. Pity is next door to love, you 
know. Let matters go on as usual. The more 
she sees of him the better. Give him but time 
and opportunity, and he will do himself more injury 
than anybody else can. Marian is observant and 
thoughtful. In the light of her best thought she 
will rate him at his true value.” 

John shook his head. I’m afraid to take 
chances,” he said. “Risk’s too great, — better 
keep them apart.” 

“Don’t let’s worry,” his wife made answer, 
“ and cross bridges before we come to them. 
Marian is in God’s hands, and looks up to Him for 
guidance with the faith of a little child to its 
earthly father. I know He’ll not allow her to 
make any mistake in this matter. The promise, 
you know, is, ^ In all thy ways acknowledge Him 
and He will direct thy steps.’ ” 

Her perfect faith carried comfort to my doubt- 
ing heart, and with more peace of mind than had 
seemed possible a few moments before, I bade 
them “good-night.” 

As I crossed the hall on my way up stairs, the 
front door still stood open ; and framed in the 
square opening, like some great illuminated pict- 
ure, was the moon-lit canon, seeming in its mys- 
terious loveliness too unearthly for human heart to 
comprehend. 


174 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


One could feel a beauty beyond what one could 
see, and realize a meaning, a glory in the trans- 
figured mountains, deeper than human thought 
could reach. An ethereal, spiritual influence 
seemed to radiate from the scene, like the fra- 
grance from a flower. 

Involuntarily the prayer of blind Bartimeus rose 
to my lips : Lord, that I might receive my sight, 
and be able, in this illuminated missal of thine, to 
see all Thou meant I should see.” 

Like blind men we stumble through this world, 
only dimly conscious of its beauty, yet not know- 
ing our own blindness. 

Even here “ Eye hath not seen nor ear heard ” 
what God meant they should see and hear, when 
He first thought about us and planned and deco- 
rated our dwelling-place in time. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Back of the house a narrow trail wound upward 
through a floral mosaic of many colors, inlaid with 
living jewels, and more beautiful than any tessel- 
lated pavement of olden times. It led to the first 
gallery in the great amphitheatre surrounding us. 

The following Sunday afternoon we took our 
usual walk in that direction. Up this perfumed 
stairway we clambered by slow, persistent effort, 
each step revealing new beauties in the rock- 
bound arena at our feet. 

What a frolic it was ! Grasping wildly at 
bushes and exposed roots of trees, climbing, 
sliding, stumbling, we fought our way to the top 
through thickets of wild roses and regiments of 
opposing blackberry and raspberry bushes. Not 
a few hostages torn from clothes did we leave 
fluttering gaily behind on the enemy’s bayonets, 
and not a few scratches did we carry away as 
proof of our determined struggle, but the fun was 
worth it all. So at least we thought, as we rallied, 
laughing and breathless, on the various landing 
places in the great staircase. 


176 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Gee whiz ! but it’s hot, as Spense would say,” 
exclaimed John, sitting down in the shade of a 
beetling crag and wiping his streaming face. 
^‘This two feet up business and one foot back, 
makes a fellow get up steam.” 

Seems a wonder we make any headway at all, 
slipping back as often as we do,” said Mrs. 
Howard. 

Only a matter of time,” answered her husband, 
jocularly,” and we’ll get there.” 

If we’ve got hold-out enough,” I suggested, 
staying power, as a jockey would call it.” 

‘‘Sur^,” John said, “that goes without saying. 
“ My father,” he continued, “ lived several years 
in France once; worked there; and he had a 
favorite saying he liked to quote to us children, — 
never mind my pronunciation, Phil, I see you 
beginning to grin, the sense is all right, a 

pas on va bien loin! that means, step by step one 
goes a long way. If he had ever seen these mount- 
ains, and tried to climb them, the truth of the 
saying would have come home to him more than 
ever.” 

“We might learn a lesson of life from our climb 
up them,” suggested Mrs. Howard. “ If we watch 
our steps we’ll think we’re not advancing at all, 
and if we watch our days we won’t notice any 
progress in ourselves; but look at distances and 
periods of time, and we’ll see we’re slowly but 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


177 


surely climbing upward. The struggling steps 
forward, on the whole, are more than the slips 
backward.” 

That would be a comforting thought,” was 
John’s reply, “but I’m afraid it’s an exceptional 
truth, true only for the few.” 

“ Perhaps not so exceptional as we, in our short- 
sighted wisdom think it is,” his wife replied ; “ it’s 
not so easy to tell how far a man or woman has 
climbed in the spiritual world, as in the material. 
They may be further up than we think they are. 
But see,” she exclaimed, “that exquisite tone on 
the hills over yonder, the wonderful blending and 
softness of the tints. Isn’t it beautiful ^ ” 

“ Oh, mamma,” burst in Marian, enthusiastically, 
“ how can any one think these canons always look 
the same ? They’re never the same two minutes, 
any more than the sky is ; their expression is 
always changing.” 

“ Did you ever observe the warmness of the 
tints everywhere in the mountains ^ ” asked her 
mother. “ Even the contrasting nearness of per- 
petual snows cannot destroy it. Although there 
is so little vegetation, the mountains never look 
cold.” 

“No, I hadn’t noticed it before,” Marian 
answered. “ I see it now, though. What is the 
reason do you suppose ? ” 

“There’s an atmospheric beauty that lights 


178 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


up the mountains in Colorado,” her father said ; 
“ that may have something to do with it, then the 
rarefied air produces a certain effect. I do not 
know the scientific explanation, do you, Phil } ” 

do not,” was my reply, unless it be an 
atmospheric effect, heightened by distance. One 
thing I do know, though, painters don’t seem to be 
able to catch the peculiar tone in their pictures.” 

“ Well,” John went on, “ if we mean to get to 
the top of that mountain to-day we’d better ^get 
a move on us.’ ” 

It was a timely if slangy suggestion, and with 
renewed courage, gained from our temporary halt, 
we resumed our upward struggle. 

At last the summit was gained, and we sat down 
in a flower-garden and picture-gallery combined. 
Rustic stone seats of quaint, grotesque device and 
shape, creamy white or pinkish in color, with wav- 
ing lines of black running through the mottled 
surface, stood everywhere, some stained with the 
green and gold of the lichens, others encrusted 
with mica, flashing in the sunlight as if powdered 
with diamond dust. 

No admission fee was asked, reserve seats were 
to be had for the taking. The fragrant sage 
spread a carpet at our feet, its sun-warmed foli- 
age exhaling waves of healthful life-giving perfume 
at every step. Against the exquisite green of the 
leaves nestled myriads of wild flowers of every 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


179 


shape and hue, and here and there masses of in- 
tertwisted vines made darker mats of green on the 
flowery background. 

If the outlook from the bottom of the canon 
and the lower levels had been magnificently 
grand, what words could even faintly image 
the glorious panorama unrolled before us from 
this higher upland. The magnificent sweep of 
the mountains, their many curves and undulating 
lines of beauty, the sublimity and symmetry of the 
great whole, from this stand-point, came to us 
like a new creation, producing new and startling 
impressions. A great silence fell upon us, 
so wonderful, so stupendously grand was the 
revelation. 

True symbol of earthly experience, I thought. 
Is not every earnest life a succession of ascents ? 
From each hardly won plateau on the hills of time 
do we not gain a wider outlook and a clearer 
understanding of the meaning and relation of 
parts to each other, in this mysterious unfolding 
we call life ? 

‘‘What a sense of space there is in the mountains 
when you get up among the high places,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Howard, looking round with reverent awe. 

“You can hardly realize the infinity of that 
space,” rejoined her husband, “until you get on the 
top of some of the great ranges, near the summit 
line of the continent. Here we’re only beginning 


180 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


to get there. Imagine crossing divide after divide 
of lofty mountains, each one higher than the last, 
till you had climbed 14,000 feet.” 

‘‘ Then,” said Mrs. Howard, “ think of looking 
off into space. I can imagine what such an out- 
look must be, with mountains piled clear to the 
horizon, some snow-capped, some covered with 
forests, others bare and awful, fissured and 
seamed from top to bottom.” 

“ The most mysterious points of interest to 
me,” I said, “are the dark, unfathomable gorges, 
the nurnberless canons winding in and out among 
the huge ranges and peaks.” 

“I tell you,” John went on, “ when you look down 
from such a point on the endless chains and circles 
of mountains, on the different ranges wheeling in- 
to line, crossing and re-crossing, dovetailing into 
each other, you can comprehend what a mountain 
system is.” 

“ If our view of nature’s kingdom from here is 
not so great,” I suggested, “ our view of man’s 
kingdom in this section is not so limited. His 
mining system is as far reaching as the mountain 
one.” 

“That’s so,” John answered, looking around 
and down. 

From our vantage ground we could see how the 
mining industry of our neighborhood had taken 
hold and struck its roots far and wide in the 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


181 


granite hills; could realize, also, what ruin and 
suffering the uprooting of that sturdy plant would 
bring to untold numbers. The countless mines 
tunneling the hill-sides, the many mills, the costly 
mining apparatus of all kinds, gave silent testi- 
mony to this. 

Below lay the mountain-walled valley, the clus- 
tered homes of Hopetown, and the dusty, upward 
winding road, looking white and hot in the pitiless 
glare of the sun. Along this narrow highway, 
dwarfed and insignificant by the distance, miners 
passed and re-passed, some with their tin can- 
teens flashing in the light, crawling slowly up- 
ward, evidently starting for their week’s work 
others full of laughter and song, returning in 
wagon loads or on foot from a day’s joyous 
outing. 

Faintly the song of merry-making, the overflow 
of happy hearts came to our ears, borne afar on 
the clear, still air. 

Across the ravine stretched the railroad track, 
Hopetown’s favorite promenade, its comparative 
level dotted with human beings. Below in the 
green labyrinths of the more secluded creek 
moved bright, fluttering spots of color, escorted 
and shadowed by forms of quieter tone. 

These were the summer idyls of the canon, and 
round their slow movements and mysterious pauses 
our interest centered. 


182 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


** Oh, mamma, how I wish we had a telescope,” 
exclaimed Marian, after watching the scene in- 
tently for a few moments. 

“ What for } ” asked her father, lazily raising his 
head from its cushion in the sage and resting it 
on his hand. A look of dreamy content filled his 
eyes, the pure delight of living possessed him, 
as it did the myriads of other living things 
around. 

“ Oh, to see what those people are doing at the 
edge of the creek,” was the reply. “ If I had a 
good glass I think I could tell who they are. 
What fun it would be.” 

“ I don’t believe the people at the other end of 
the telescope would see where the fun came in, 
answered her father, demurely. Folks that go 
flower-hunting in couples are not always ready to 
be put under the search-light of an inspection like 
that. I can remember when it wouldn’t have 
suited us very well, can’t you, Mary .? ” 

Mrs. Howard actually blushed, as her husband’s 
eyes, with fun dancing in their dark depths, rested 
on her. 

How foolish you talk, John,” she said quickly, 
with an air of embarrassed annoyance that seemed 
to amuse him greatly. What will the children 
think } ” 

Without giving them time to put their thoughts 
into words, John went on: “Those individuals 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


183 


down there in whose doings you are so much in- 
terested, imagine themselves hidden from human 
observation ; and if they only had a roof over their 
leafy solitude, they would be. Wouldn’t it be 
kind of mean to take advantage of the forgotten 
sky-light ? ” 

“ I hadn’t thought of it in that light, papa,” re- 
sponded Marian, quickly. As you put the matter 
it wouldn’t seem very honorable.” 

“ Not much more than eavesdropping,” was the 
quiet reply, and we all have our opinion of that 
kind of sneak-thief. My old father’s rule was a 
pretty good one : ‘ Never see what people don’t 
want you to see, unless it’s your duty to do so.’ ” 

At this point in the conversation Marjorie pre- 
vented further talk by stealing up behind her 
father and raining a perfect deluge of flowers on 
his head and shoulders. With the abandon of a 
boy he entered into the spirit of the frolic, and 
pelted the little maiden with the pretty blossoms 
till she cried for mercy. Round the two in an 
ecstasy of excited wonder and delight danced and 
barked Roland, evidently a little dubious about 
the propriety of this new game and his own 
special duty as preserver of the peace. 

What a slaughter of the innocents,” said Mrs. 
Howard, rising to her feet. “ Let us gather the 
poor babies up and take them home.” 

** Can we go by way of the water-fall ? ” asked 


184 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


Marian. ** It will be so much cooler that way, 
and we can get a drink.” 

Unanimously we assented to the proposition, 
and took our way homeward and downward in 
the usual pell-mell, jerky fashion of returning 
climbers. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The boom of the falling water as we neared the 
hidden gully sounded refreshing, and the line of 
green, running down the gorge, seemed pleasantly 
suggestive of coolness and shade. Zigzagging 
through labyrinths of twisted bushes and tangled 
patches of choke-cherries, among flower-beds 
gorgeous in color, across rivers of stone arrested 
apparently in wild flight down the mountain side, 
we stumbled at length to the edge of the torrent. 
A few moment’s rest, a dipping* of hot hands and 
face in the cold, snow-fed stream, a delicious drink 
from improvised cups of leaf or hand, and we fol- 
lowed our impetuous guide more deliberately in 
his foam-covered race over the cliffs. 

Just below the white leap of the first fall a 
group of trees made a sylvan grotto, and here, 
beneath the branches of a large spreading fir, we 
sat down to rest. The odor of crushed pine was in 
the air, and the scent of wet moss rose like incense 
from the recesses of this wood chapel. Tufts of 
fern adorned the crevices, trailing vines festooned 
the greenish black walls, while here and there the 

185 


186 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


scarlet runners of the wild strawberry added dainty 
lines of beauty. 

Rapidly gathering a few of these woodland 
treasures, with skillful fingers Mrs, Howard 
twisted the leaves and ferns into a chaplet and 
crowned the girls. 

“ Now you look like the tutelary naiads of the 
canon,” I said. Just then a hand parted the 
tangled shrubbery near by, and framed in the 
green foliage appeared the laughing face and 
classic profile of Charlie Heywood; ^‘and there,” I 
added, ^Hs the faun.” 

‘‘Minus the ears, I hope,” laughed John. 

“ How did you know where we were ? ” inquired 
Harry. 

“ Saw you at the top of the precipice as I was 
coming up the road,” was the answer, “and knew you 
must have gone into hiding somewhere in this gulch. ” 

“ It must be high time I came out of hiding,” 
said Mrs. Howard, laughing, “ if you fauns and 
naiads are to get any supper to-night.” 

Greeting Charlie kindly, and cautioning us not 
to linger too long, she started for the house fol- 
lowed by John and Harry. 

Overhead towered the fir Colossus of the woods, 
its spreading branches interlacing so closely as to 
form perfect floors of verdure. Placing Marjorie 
on a lower limb I swung myself up behind her, 
and mounting gradually higher soon had her in 


THE STCRY OF A CANON. 


187 


the heart of a bower, tapestried with green and 
interwoven with golden bars of sunshine. 

The quiet, aromatic odor, the slumberous rustle 
of the pine needles after the long climb in the hot 
sun had a drowsy effect on the little maid, and be- 
fore I realized the condition of affairs she was fast 
asleep, her head on my shoulder. Keeping one 
arm around her I braced myself against the huge 
trunk, and stretched along the heavily fringed 
branches we rested as secure as on a couch. It 
was indeed a sleepy hollow. 

From below came the sound of voices, and as 
the speakers grew interested, even the words. As 
the tenor of the conversation did not seem particu- 
larly private, I did not feel called upon to remind 
them of my existence. They knew of my where- 
abouts, knew also I had ears. 

‘^That’s what I came up to-night for,” I heard 
Charlie say. “ Will you go?” 

'^To-night.?” was Marian’s reply, “why this is 
Sunday.” 

“ What difference does that make ” he inquired. 

“ It makes a great difference to me,” she said, 
gently but firmly. “ I never go riding on Sunday, 
never have.” 

“That’s just a narrow, old-fashioned notion of 
yours, Marian,” he went on coaxingly. “You’re a 
regular Puritan about some things. You can go 
once to oblige a fellow, can’t you ? ” 


188 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“ No, Charlie, I can’t, not even once. This is 
not a whim. I don’t think it’s right to go. Don’t 
you see if I could go once, I could go always.? ” 

‘*No, I don’t see,” he answered a little crossly. 
“ I don’t pretend to understand your fine distinc- 
tions of right and wrong, never have. I suppose 
if you wanted to take a ride with me, you’d go. 
Maybe if Philip asked you, it might be a horse of 
a different color.” 

Marian laughed good-naturedly. “ Oh, Charlie,” 
she said, “ what a silly j ealous boy you are, and 
how unreasonably you talk. This is not a matter 
of personal inclination at all, but of principle.” 

“ Oh, bother,” he exclaimed, I hate that word 
principle. It’s like a barbed wire fence ; you’re 
everlastingly running up against the pesky thing 
when you least expect it. What’s a pretty girl like 
you got to do with principle, anyway .? ” 

“ Why, Charlie, would you like me if I didn’t 
have any .? ” I heard her ask, an accent of wonder- 
ing interrogation in her voice. 

‘‘Yes, I’d like you better,” was the prompt 
reply; “you couldn’t do wrong if you tried, ain’t 
built that way, and you’d be a lots jollier compan- 
ion if you weren’t so plaguey particular.” 

“ I’m sorry you feel that way, Charlie, for I 
know it’s wrong. I believe, though, you don’t mean 
half you say. You’re only talking to be contrary.” 

“ No I’m not,” was the obstinate answer, “ I 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


189 


mean just what I say. Why can’t you go ahead, 
like other girls, and have a good time when you get 
the chance, without this everlasting judge and jury 
business. Even when I know you want to go 
some place, or do some particular thing, I never 
know what you’ll do.” He paused, but she said 
nothing. ^‘Any other girl in town,” he added with 
a little air of pique, “ would be glad to go riding 
with me to-night, if I asked her.” 

Why don’t you ask some other girl then ? ” she 
inquired, demurely. 

suppose you wouldn’t care if I did,” he 
retorted, bitterly. 

Certainly not ; if you want to ask anybody 
else, do so.” 

There was not a particle of coquetry about 
Marian, and Charlie knew it. “You’re a conun- 
drum, Marian,” he said. “ I couldn’t say that to 
you, and if you cared anything for me you couldn’t 
say it either.” 

“ Oh, Charlie, don’t talk that way,” she answered, 
“ I don’t like it. I guess we’d better be starting 
for home. Mamma may need me,” she added, 
nervously. 

“ I suppose there’s no use urging you to go to- 
night,” he asked. 

“ No, thank you, I couldn’t go.” The tone 
suggested a smiling refusal, although a decided 
one. 


190 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


‘‘Will you go with me some week night, then ? " 
he inquired, eagerly. 

“ Oh, yes, with pleasure, if mamma has no objec- 
tions.” 

“ Say, Marian,” he exclaimed, and his tone had 
an unmistakable ring of curiosity, “would you 
never do anything your father and mother disap- 
proved of .^ ” 

There was a moment’s pause and then Marian 
said slowly, as if weighing each word, “ No, Charlie, 
I don’t think I ever \yould.” 

“ Not even on the sly, — if you were sure they’d 
never know it ” 

“ Not even on the sly. I would know it myself, 
that would be enough. The very thought of 
deceiving them — when they trust me so com- 
pletely — would make me so miserable I couldn’t 
enjoy anything; besides, I love them too dearly. 
Would you.^ ” 

“ Would I what ? ” 

“ Do anything on the sly you knew your 
parents would disapprove of ” 

“ Why, yes,” he said, candidly, “ I’d think it was 
all right if the old folks never found it out.” 

“That seems a dreadful doctrine to me, Charlie,” 
she said, earnestly, “ and it hurts me to have you 
say such things. I know you don’t really believe 
them, and surely wouldn’t act on them.” 

“ Well,” he acknowledged, “ It wouldn’t be very 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


191 


good doctrine for girls to act on, maybe, but it’s all 
right for men.” 

“ Do you think the standard is different for the 
two ? ” she asked in surprise. 

Yes, I do. We expect more from women than 
men. What boy’s life would compare with a sweet, 
pure saint like yourself, for instance ? He’d be a 
prig.” 

I’ve never thought much about those things,” 
Marian answered, rising to her feet, ‘‘but I’m sure 
there ought not to be a different standard.” 

“Sit down,” he said, “for a few moments, and 
let’s argue this question out. There’s no hurry 
about getting home. Your father hasn’t got the 
fire started yet.” 

“ I don’t want to, Charlie,” she answered. “ I 
can’t argue about it, only I feel your idea is 
wrong.” 

“ Oh, well, that settles it. When a woman feels 
in a certain way about anything you needn’t stop 
to reason with her. As father says, she’s far 
beyond that. I know of old what your little quiet 
‘I feel I ought not to go’ means. I’ve run up 
against that snag too often not to remember. Do 
you feel you ought to go home now ? ” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“All right, then we’ll go.” 

They had started down the trail, when Marian 
suddenly exclaimed, “ where are Philip and 


192 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Marjorie? I saw them climb up that tree half an 
hour ago ; they can’t be up there all this time?” 

“Yes we are,” I called out. “Marjorie fell 
asleep, and I let her rest a little she looked so 
tired. She’s as snug up here as in her own bed. 
I hate to waken her.” 

“ The idea. Asleep in a tree,” said Marian, 
coming to the foot of the trunk and peering 
curiously up among the branches. “Dear little 
birdie ! I wish I could climb up there and see her 
nest. It must be like a fairy story.” 

“ Go on,” urged Charlie, “ I’ll help you.” 

“ Oh, no thank you,” she replied. “ I wouldn’t 
think of such a thing unless I had wings.” 

With considerable coaxing from above and 
below we wakened Marjorie, and with much skill- 
ful manoeuvring I succeeded in engineering her 
safe descent to the ground. Then, as the easiest 
solution of further progress, picked her up and 
carried, or rather stumbled with her toward home. 

That evening as we sat on the porch after sup- 
per, Mrs. Howard told her husband of Charlie’s 
invitation to Marian. 

“ What did you say when Marian told you ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Said I would have to see what you thought.” 

“That was right; — well, tell her I said she 
couldn’t go.” 

“ Oh, John ! ” his wife exclaimed, “ I’m afraid if 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


193 


you refuse your consent it will make trouble. 
Charlie will feel awfully hurt, and so will Marian. 
His family won’t like it either.” 

‘‘I can’t help that,” was the decided answer. 

I don’t think it’s best for Marian to go riding 
with Charlie. The consequences must take care 
of themselves.” 

Peace-loving, gentle Mrs. Howard would gladly 
have compromised by granting permission just 
this once, but John was firm, and from long experi- 
ence she knew the folly of further argument. 

By and by he went in doors, and Marian, notic- 
ing from her seat in the garden that he had gone, 
came forward to the steps to make inquiries. A 
chasm had opened between these two, and all day 
she had avoided her father. The ‘‘ little rift within 
the lute, that soon might make its music mute,” 
was faintly discernible. Would it widen till the 
music of these human hearts, so long vibrating 
in sympathy no longer chorded, or would the touch 
of love fill in the rift and once more make sweet 
music as of old 

“Did you ask papa.?” she said, looking at her 
mother inquiringly*. 

“Yes, I did,” rejoined Mrs. Howard, hesitatingly. 

“ What did he say .? ” 

“ He does not want you to go.” 

Marian’s face flushed crimson, and her eyes 
filled with indignant tears. 


194 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


^‘Not want me to go? — Why?” she asked 
wonderingly. 

“ He does not think it best,” was her mother’s 
gentle reply. 

“ I think that is cruelly unjust,” Marian burst 
out, impetuously. “ Papa has no reason to do such 
a thing, — no right. What will Charlie think ? I 
don’t know how to tell him.” 

Just then Charlie sauntered up, having evidently 
followed Marian to hear the decision. Doubtless 
in his mind the asking had been a mere formality,^ 
and the decision was already a foregone conclu- 
sion. 

For a moment no one spoke, and with a little air 
of surprise he said: “Well, have you found out 
whether you can go riding or not ? ” 

Reluctantly, almost apologetically, Marian an- 
swered : “Yes, — papa objects to my going.” 

The hot blood leaped clear to his forehead, and 
a look of anger, like an unspoken curse, gleamed 
from his eyes. “On what grounds does he refuse 
his consent ? ” he inquired, haughtily. 

“ I don’t know, I didn’t ask,” was Marian’s 
reply. “ Don’t let’s say any more about it, please, 
Charlie. Come, let’s take a walk.” She linked 
her arm within his and drew him gently away. 

Mrs. Howard looked wistfully after them as they 
walked slowly across the plateau to its outer edge. 

“I am so sorry this has happened,” she said at 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


195 


length. “John made a great mistake, I think, 
forbidding this ride. With a girl of Marian’s dis- 
position, arbitrary measures are not wise.” 

I felt so too. This little incident instead of 
separating, as John intended it should, would in 
reality draw them closer together. Marian’s natural 
chivalry of heart would rush to his defense, and 
unconsciously her thoughts would centre around 
him. 

In every true woman’s nature is more or less of 
the motherly instinct, and as unerringly as the law 
of gravity does this feeling tend toward its own 
centre of attraction — the wronged, the wounded, 
the helpless. Charlie, according to Marian’s esti- 
mate, had been unjustly dealt with, his feelings 
hurt without cause, and as a natural consequence 
his powers of attraction had been increased won- 
derfully. Her sympathies had gone out to him. 

Another thing, they now had a grievance in com- 
mon, (or thought they had, which amounts to the 
same thing), and although loyalty to her father 
would probably prevent Marian speaking of it, a 
bond of sympathy had been created, all the more 
dangerous because of its subtle nature. 

Surely, I thought, in the daily friction of family 
life diplomacy is as much a necessity, and as much 
a fine art, as between nations ; for, after all, what is 
a family but a nation in miniature, governed by the 
same motives, guided by the same laws ? 


196 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Out of the small decisions of to-day are evolved 
the great issues of to-morrow. Can we, then, over- 
estimate the far-reaching power of diplomatic tact 
in the household, a power that from day to day 
silently shapes the characters and actions of the 
members } In summing up the influences of our 
home life, do we sufficiently take into account this 
mighty factor 

Surely too much thought cannot be given to its 
study, to the mastery and practical manifestation 
of its details. Fathers and mothers may not 
appreciate its significance, yet on the presence or 
absence of this social force may depend the des- 
tiny for time and eternity of countless souls. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


The following Tuesday as I sat in the office at 
the mine writing, the sound of hurried feet tram- 
pling rapidly over the stony road fell on my ear, 
startling me with sudden apprehension. As in a 
ship, so in a mine the unusual is ever the alarm- 
ing. Instinctively I knew the truth — an accident 
had happened. 

Another moment and Harry Seaton, foreman of 
the mine, stood in the open door panting and pal- 
lid from excitement. 

“ Oh, Mr. Marston,” he exclaimed, with quiver- 
ing lips, “for God’s sake come quick. There’s 
been an awful accident.” 

“ Anybody hurt seriously ” I asked, jumping to 
my feet. 

“I ain’t just sure, but I’m most afeard some- 
body’s killed. Oh, my God, but it’s an awful 
sight,” he burst out, and the strong man shud- 
dered at the recollection. 

Only stopping to grasp a few needed articles, 
always kept on hand in case of such emergencies, 
I started for the mine, on my way there finding 

197 


198 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


out the particulars of the accident. As near as I 
could learn from Harry, it was another example of 
a missed shot. 

“ Who are the men I asked. 

'‘Willie Griffin, Ed. Collins and Tim Rafferty,” 
he answered. “ They were bringing them up as I 
left.” 

At the mouth of the tunnel we met the men 
carrying their comrades out. One glance at the 
limp, mangled forms and blood-stained faces was 
enough. The awfulness of death was there. 

Just across the way stood the ore houses. 
Thither we carried them, the life-blood oozing 
from the poor, torn bodies at every step, and drip- 
ping on the white dust of the road in sickening 
clots of dark crimson. 

Tenderly as one would lay a sleeping baby in its 
cradle the mangled forms were laid on the rough 
floor, and for a few moments we stood around in 
reverent silence, looking down with horror-filled 
hearts, too deep for words, at the awful sight. 

The deadly giant powder had done its work with 
sickening power, mutilating and defacing with 
demoniacal ferocity. Hands and feet blown off, 
ears hanging by sinewy threads, furrows of 
bleeding, upturned flesh, attested this but too 
terribly. 

Two of the victims were young men. That very 
morning I had seen them wrestling playfully with 


1 


THE STORY OF A CAHoN. 199 

each other among the bowlders on the sweet- 
scented hill-side, before the whistle blew. Power- 
ful, muscular fellows they were then, frank-faced, 
good-natured athletes, overflowing with glorious 
animal life. 

Now their magnificent young manhood but a 
memory, they lay before us, mutilated fragments, 
empty, crushed shells. 

Outside glowed and shimmered the glad June 
sunshine. The song of birds, the hum of insect 
life, the perfume of flowers floated in through the 
open door ; within, like an impenetrable curtain, 
shutting off the here of time from the yonder of 
eternity, rested the shadow, the dark mystery of 
death. Stunned and awe-stricken the men stood 
around. Down more than one rugged cheek 
unnoticed tears stole silently. 

At last some one whispered brokenly, ^‘Poor 
Ed. always said he wanted to die with his boots 
on. He got his wish, poor boy, but my God ! 
what a death, what an end ! ” 

Was this, indeed, the end ? Nay, rather was it 
not but a fresh beginning ? A pause between the 
acts, a solemn change preparatory and necessary 
to a new start elsewhere.^ “In my Father’s 
house are many mansions,” were the words of 
One whose prophetic eye penetrated beyond this 
strange evolution called death, to the ever devel- 
oping life springing from it. 


200 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Their day’s work on earth was done, the names 
of our mining comrades would be stricken from 
the pay-roll, but they were still inscribed in God’s 
book of remembrance, and beyond the infinite love 
of the Father’s heart they could not pass. All that 
was mortal of them had paid the penalty of a 
broken law, and for us in our blindness they had 
ceased to be ; but somewhere, in some of the 
many mansions of God’s great universe, the 
immortal spirits had been born again to a new 
life through the death agonies of this. 

Perchance grander opportunities awaited them 
there, and with larger wisdom they might resume 
their life work, climbing step by step ever nearer 
a divine perfection. Thoughts such as these 
seemed naturally to rest on the dark horror of 
this tragedy, like the golden fingers of dawn 
on the sombre blackness of night, illuminating 
it with rays of prophetic hope. 

Meanwhile the duty of the hour awaited us, and 
with shrinking hearts we did what the necessities 
of that hour demanded. The bars that held the 
immortal spirit captive had been rudely torn 
asunder, and bird-like the soul had flown beyond 
our mortal vision, leaving only the useless, bat- 
tered cage behind. The care of that was now our 
duty. 

After stripping and washing the bodies as skill- 
fully as possible, we sewed and bandaged the 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


201 


missing members in place. For the sake of the 
friends it seemed best to dress them in readiness 
for the grave, so that no additional handling would 
be needed. This I arranged for, and when all 
had been done that tender ingenuity could devise, 
or human hands accomplish, the result was more 
satisfactory than had seemed possible. The faces 
looked peaceful, and except for cuts and scratches, 
natural. 

At the door of the ore house, as I came out, 
stood a group of men talking in low -tones. They 
stopped when they saw me as if in doubt about 
something. 

“What is it, boys” I asked, noticing the hesi- 
tation. 

“Somebody’ll have to break the news to the 
folks,” Pat O’Malley answered. 

“Good Heavens! don’t they know it yetf I 
said in consternation. 

“ No. They know there’s been an accident, 
leastways Mrs. Rafferty do, but they don’t know 
what. Each one thinks the throuble is his neigh- 
bor’s. Sure there didn’t anybody have the heart 
to tell them the trut.” 

“I thought you went to see them, Harry,” I 
said, “ when you went down to the store after the 
suits of clothes.” 

Harry Seaton, big brawny fellow as he was, 
choked where he stood and sobbed like a woman. 


202 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


making no attempt to hide it. ‘There was not a 
dry eye in the crowd. 

“ I did see Mrs. Rafferty as I was going down 
the road, Mr. Marston,” he answered brokenly, 
^‘and she cried out to me to know how it was. She 
had heard about Ed. and Will, but didn’t seem to 
think about Tim. I’m thinking somebody had lied 
to her about it, an’ I couldn’t tell her. The sight 
of her face and all them young ones took the heart 
right out of me.” 

“We were just talkin’ about it when you came 
out, Misther Philip,” Pat went on, “an’ wonderin’ 
whether you wouldn’t break the news to them 
yourself. You’ve a kind av tender pitiful way wid 
you whin there’s trouble around, an’ maybe you 
cud let them down aisier than the rest av us.” 

“That would be impossible for anyone to do,” 
was my reply, “ and I think some of you who know 
them better than I ought to go.” 

Five minutes that seemed an hour in duration 
passed, and no one volunteered, and so, as had 
happened more than once in my life, the breaking 
of the news to the stricken household devolved on 
me; but the story of those heart-breaking inter- 
views must forever remain untold. They will ever 
haunt me as among the saddest of earth’s memo- 
ries, an experience to be lived over again in the 
sacred moments of life, but never told. 

Mrs. Rafferty’s case was peculiarly pathetic. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 203 

She had been left with seven children, the oldest 
not yet fourteen. Tim had been one of the best of 
husbands and fathers, and his sudden death was a 
measureless calamity. 

As I stood in front of the cosy cottage that 
summer forenoon, looking around, its sad signifi- 
cance, present and future, was but too apparent. 
On every hand were signs of the home-making 
instincts of the dead miner. 

The little garden rescued with such infinite pains 
from the chaos of rocks and stony soil, the num- 
berless irrigating ditches meandering here and 
there, the carefully tended beds of vegetables and 
strips of flowers, the hop-vines festooned round the 
windows, the general air of tidiness and thrift all 
told their own story, and showed where and how 
Tim’s leisure hours had been spent. 

Against the gnarled trunk of a tree still leaned 
his spade and rake, just as he had placed them a 
few hours before. 

Poor fellow. His last thoughts almost had been 
for others, his last work on earth an effort to make 
more glad and beautiful the home and lives of 
those he loved. 

Through the open doors and windows of the 
cottage I had just left, came the sound of childish 
sobs and the wail of a broken heart. 

Oh, the mystery of it all ! This throbbing line of 
pain and anguish running like a scarlet thread of 


204 


THE STORY OF A CAI^ON. 


blood all through the ages, stretching from cradle 
to tomb, crushing its thorny spikes alike into the 
innocent child and stalwart man. What is its 
significance ? Who can solve this riddle of life and 
death, of pain and anguish, and give to the sorrow- 
ing children of men the comforting solution of it 
all } No answer comes to our impassioned cry for 
light. 

We can but trust and wait. Suffering is no 
accident, but evidently a law of the universe. 
Some day we shall understand the necessity there 
was for its being, and be able to say “God’s 
way was best.” He makes no mistakes. Lived 
in the light not of time, but of eternity, this life 
alone becomes intelligible, the divine purpose 
clear. 

The scent of spring was in the air. Its shining 
pennons waved from every crevice of the hills. 
Above the brown earth of the garden myriads of 
green blades were beginning to show themselves. 
Everything spoke of a resurrection from the death- 
like sleep of winter. Life was at the heart of 
seeming death, and the glad gospel of Easter, even 
in this cold upland, was preached from a thousand 
pulpits. 

Was there no message of joyful truth for us in 
the wordless eloquence } 

Later in the day I had occasion to see Mrs. 
Rafferty. A few hours had done the work of 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


205 


years. She was an old woman. The light had 
died out of her motherly, sonsy face, the elasticity 
out of her quick step. 

She sat on a low chair at the head of the bed 
where the body lay, her tearless eyes riveted on the 
dead face, her fingers resting tenderly on the muti- 
lated hand. The room was full of sobbing, 
sympathizing neighbors and weeping children. As 
I drew near she lifted her tearless eyes to mine, 
with a look of dumb, hopeless agony pitiable to 
see, and mechanically held out her hand. It was 
cold as ice. 

'' Oh, my Tim,” she whispered at last, “ my dear 
Tim ; how can I live without him ? ” 

I could but wring her hand in silent sympathy. 
Words would have been sacrilegious. 

^^We were so happy,” she continued in a low 
voice, more to herself than to me. “ How can I 
bear it ?” Looking up once more, she added, “only 
this morning he got up at four o’clock to work in 
the garden, ‘ so as to hurry up summer a bit for 
mother,’ he said, ^and make it as long as possible.’ 
I was raised on a farm, an’ he knew how I loved to 
have green growing things about me.” 

“ The last words he said as he was going out 
the door,” she went on musingly, were, “ ‘ how I 
hate to go into that old black hole in the mountain 
such a day as this. I wish I could stay home and 
work in the garden all day beside you and the 


206 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


children.’ Oh, Mr. Marston, he did love flowers 
and light so, and hated the dark mine where it’s 
night all the time, — but our home was here, our 
home was here, and we had to stay.” 

‘And there shall be no night there,’ where he 
has gone,” I said, reverently. “Tim was a good 
man who sincerely loved the light of goodness, 
and walked in it. Now he has gone to the land 
where no darkness ever comes, where the shadow 
of sin and sorrow is but a memory, and where God 
Himself is the light thereof.” 

“ He’ll be happy there,” she murmured, a faint 
gleam lighting up her sad face ; then as her eye 
rested on the still irresponsive face and figure on 
the bed, she suddenly threw her apron over her 
head, and rocking back and forth in a wild paroxysm 
of uncontrollable grief, wailed forth : “ But oh, 
what will the children and me do without him, — 
my Tim ” 

Truly in scenes such as these, it needs a faith 
beyond human to be able to stretch forth a hand 
through the long years to catch the “far-off 
interest of tears ” like these, welling like life-blood 
from a broken heart. 

Only a leaf from a miner’s life, perhaps you say, 
an every-day occurrence ; true, yet that simple, 
homespun life was luminous with character, 
heaven’s chiefest glory, and in its common de- 
tails resplendent with nobility. Even in its clos- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


207 


ing paragraph was there not a hint of heroism ? 
The missed shot was Tim’s, it was his duty to pick 
it out, and as he started that morning on his peril- 
ous errand he begged the boys to remain behind. 
This, in spite of remonstrance, they refused to do. 
‘^Oh, go ahead, Tim,” was the half-joking answer, 
we’re all in the same hole, our life is no better 
than yours. If one goes over the range we’ll all 
go together ; ” and so with a generous self-forgetful- 
ness they went to their fate. 

At the eastern end of the mountain-walled val- 
ley which encloses Silver Ridge, stands an isolated, 
fir-crowned mound, the remains of some Titanic 
land-slide of forgotten ages. Far aloft on the hill- 
side its original home and track downward can 
still be seen and traced. 

On the other side of this huge rampart is the 
graveyard of Silver Ridge. Most cemeteries are 
made beautiful by the presence of trees ; here a 
fir wood is made sacred by the presence of 
graves. 

As you stand in this green-aisled city of the 
dead, looking eastward, a grander, more soul-uplift- 
ing view can hardly be imagined. To the right the 
encircling hills, shaded and softened by forests of 
fir and aspen, curve grandly northward, range be- 
yond range ; to the left a huge ridge of corrugated 
mountain runs promontory-like to meet them. 
Between winds the canon, that Goth of modern 


208 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


times the railway, and the hurrying, foam-cov- 
ered creek, its belt of trees and vegetation shining 
and shimmering in the sunlight. In the distance, 
spanning the deep, romantic chasm like some 
aerial cobweb spun in iron, stretches the bridge, 
and still further down the narrow rift can be seen 
the outlines of Hopetown. 

Here in this sunny, sheltered spot, this God’s 
acre of the mountains, guarded by the quiet mul- 
titude of sombre, steadfast pines,, all that was mor- 
tal of our comrades was laid to rest. Never before 
had the words, ‘‘ I am the Resurrection and the 
Life,” come home to me with such convincing 
power as on that day. They had the ring of eter- 
nal truth in their solemn cadence, and God was at 
the heart of them. 

Farther down the steep slope was the base-ball 
ground, a natural circus surrounded by gigantic 
bowlders and fringed by the ever present fir. 
The two young fellows just killed had been 
leaders in all athletic sports ; this picturesque 
level had been their sylvan gymnasium. Over 
these rocks, down the precipitous trail, weaving 
out and in among the dark pines like fast-flying 
shuttles, had they gone many a day. The 
whole place was alive with associations of their 
presence. 

Their young life had been a glorious possession, 
a still more glorious promise, yet perchance death 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


209 


was a greater heritage. It is as natural to die as 
to be born, and who can tell what secret of infi- 
nite sweetness death holds in his mysterious 
keeping } a secret, it may be, sweeter and grander 
than life itself. 

The human harp with its many strings of sev- 
ered love mingled its wail, that day, with the sigh 
of the summer breeze through the pine needles 
as the earth closed over the coffin lid ; but the 
minor strain was the sad music of earth only. 
The smiling heaven above whispered of joy and 
peace. 

Slowly the long procession of saddened hearts 
wound its way downward from the silent city on 
the hill to the city of homes at its foot. The 
pause in life’s routine was over, and once more 
the every-day machinery resumed its noisy 
whirr. 

Our duty to the dead was done, but the living, 
sitting apart in their desolated homes, more than 
ever claimed our love and care ; and generously did 
the heart of the whole community seemingly go 
out to them in tender sympathy, and living deeds 
of loving helpfulness. 

Miners are proverbially generous, and nobly did 
the boys respond to our call for help. Before that 
week was over, sufficient money had been raised to 
care for the needs of many a to-morrow in the 
simple life of the bereaved. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Next Saturday afternoon on reaching “ Rest-A- 
While ” I found Marian’s guest, Mr. McLean, 
already there. He had kept his word, leaving the 
safe anchorage of the quiet hills to do so. 

As I came over the brow of the last hill a 
pleasant home picture met my eyes. The old red 
house with its cool green surroundings lay just 
below, basking in the warm air, its windows flash- 
ing cheerily in the sun. In the shade of the trees, 
half hidden by the tall grass growing so lux- 
uriantly by the edge of the little runlet, crouched 
Roland, and around him in playful sport frolicked 
Marjorie’s white kitten. At the end of the rocky 
plateau, overlooking the tower, were the family 
and their visitor. 

Conspicuous above the others towered Hugh’s 
tall, commanding form and snow-crowned head. 
As usual his face shone with its inner light of 
happiness and deep peace, and he seemed as much 
at home in the new setting as if in his mountain 
cabin. The same air of repose characterized him. 

210 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


211 


Marjorie had already made friends and nestled 
confidingly by his side, her little hand clasped 
lovingly in his. 

As always, a warm welcome awaited me. Words 
were scarcely needed. The moral atmosphere 
radiating from the friendly circle was as genial as 
the rush of warm air from the opened door of 
some friendly house in winter, and the greetings 
seemed but the echo of kindly thoughts and good 
wishes clustering round the heart’s fire. 

How have you been this week, Philip ? ” in- 
quired Mrs. Howard. “ We have thought and 
spoken of you so much.” 

“ Thank you, I have been well.” 

“ What an awful accident that was at the mine,” 
she continued. “We have lived it over many 
times, and sympathized so deeply with the be- 
reaved friends, especially poor Mrs. Rafferty.” 
Her voice was full of sympathy and the kindly 
eyes were moist. “ In a few days I thought I 
would go up and see the families,” she went on, 
“ although they are all strangers to me. Maybe 
there is something I can do.” 

In the simple, natural life of the mining com- 
munity trouble levels all artificial barriers, and 
heart goes out to heart in active sympathy of deed 
as well as word wherever need exists. 

John said nothing, but his face reflected unmis- 
takably his approval. 


212 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


‘‘You can carry a message of love to them,” 
said Mr. McLean earnestly, “ the most royal gift 
one heart can ever bear to another in this world. 
You can make them feel the kinship, the oneness 
of the human race, and through that the greater 
truth, the Fatherhood of God. Go, Mrs. Howard, 
by all means, an’ the power an’ blessin’ o’ God go 
wi’ ye.” 

“Sorrow carries its own passport,” Mary 
answered, “ and I always feel it a precious 
privilege, as well as duty, to go where the shadow 
of death has crossed before. Most of the friends 
made in later years have been made in this way, 
and the relationship is peculiarly sacred. They 
seem in a deep, eternal way brothers and sisters, 
and in a special spiritual sense God’s gift.” A 
look almost of joy glowed in Hugh McLean’s 
deep-set, piercing eyes, as they rested on Mrs. 
Howard, but he said nothing. Her broad,, all- 
embracing humanity and charity harmonized weM 
with his own catholic belief and practice. 

Marian had been listening intently to the fore- 
going conversation, and at this point broke in 
gently : “ I understand the meaning of the Samari- 
tan story now better than ever before. It is just 
as true for us to-day, isn’t it, as for the people then, 
and the lesson to be learned is just as plain.?” 

“Ay,” responded Hugh, “that was a twentieth 
century thought and story, and shows the univer- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


213 


sality of Him who uttered it. We’ve been a’ 
these years cornin’ abreast of its gran’ teachin’, an’ 
even now only the advance guard of Christ stand 
in the glow of its watch-fires. 

“ But,” quoted John, 

“ ‘ It’s coming up the steep of time, 

And this old world is growing brighter; 

We may not see its dawn sublime, 

Yet high hopes make the heart throb lighter; 

Our dust may slumber underground 

When it awakes the world in wonder, 

But we have felt it gathering round. 

Have heard its voice of distant thunder.’ ” 

“^’Tis coming, yes, ’tis coming.’ These are 
Massey’s words on the subject, the poet prophet 
of the nineteenth century. Did you ever read 
any of his poetry, Mac • 

“No, I never did, John ; dinna care much about 
poetry as a rule, too artificial to suit me, but that 
verse has a kind of triumphant ring and an easy 
swing that I like.” 

“ Man, he makes me think of Burns some,” was 
John’s reply; “cut off the same piece, although 
Massey is more of a conscious reformer. The 
key-note of their poetry is the same, and their fun- 
damental thoughts alike. Both are natural poets, 
and, above all, poets of humanity; Burns uncon- 
sciously, Massey, perhaps, more from a sense of 
duty and devotion to a great cause.” 

“I do think,” said Mrs. Howard, “that the out- 


214 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


look for the old world and its toiling millions is 
growing brighter all the time. More people are 
comfortable and happy now than ever before. 
Even in my day I can notice a steady progress. 
The dawn of a better day is glinting on the hill- 
tops.” 

** Surely, surely,” replied Hugh, deliberately, 
‘‘this great experiment of life grows to its com 
summation slowly, as men count years, but it 
grows. It was a perfected thought, doubtless, in 
the mind o’ the Deity long afore it was an incar* 
nation upon earth, so progress is inevitable. 
God’s experiments are never failures.” 

“That is true,” answered Mary. “If we had 
but larger vision to see the completed whole, and 
not merely blurred, disconnected fragments of it, 
we would be more content.” 

“ We’ll hae all eternity to study the completed 
whole,” replied Hugh, “after the scaffoldin’ o’ 
time has been taken down. Then with eyes puri- 
fied from this world’s short-sightedness, we’ll be 
able to trace the earth made designs of beauty, 
an’ see the needs be for a’ the discipline an’ 
sufferin’.” 

“Ah,” sighed Mrs. Howard, “This life experi- 
ment has been a long time unfolding its hidden 
meaning. Its designs of beauty are sadly marred 
to many a poor soul, looked at through the mist of 
human tears.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


215 


“Yes,” replied Hugh, “but a’ great concep- 
tions do take long periods to unfold, an’ in workin’ 
out His will God puts himsel’ in line with this 
eternal law o’ the universe. He taks nae count o’ 
time, and bye and bye we winna either, Mrs. 
Howard. A thousand years in His sight are but 
as one day, for He has a’ eternity to work in an’ 
wait for the perfected outcome o’ His work, — an’ 
so hae we. The result is a’ God cares about, 
an’ that will be its ain interpreter to us bye an’ 
bye. The study o’ this slow evolution o’ the ages 
wull be a gran’ text book in the high schools o’ 
eternity.” 

“Well,” John said, “in spite of all your philoso- 
phy and Christianity, this life business bothers us 
like the mischief. The working plans of the great 
Architect in this world don’t always seem right. 
To a good many of us, if life isn’t a failure it’s a 
conundrum, and with all our nineteenth century 
knowledge the solution of its mysteries seems as 
far off as ever.” 

“What do you suppose,” I said, “any of us 
would have thought of the working plans for this 
world as a home if we could have taken a bird’s- 
eye view of them in the first or second geologic 
periods, when chaos and violence seemingly had 
complete control ^ Could we have imagined the 
fair, gentle landscapes that later on were to 
emerge from the wild confusion and convul- 


216 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


sions of those times ? Would such a peaceful 
little Eden as this, even, have seemed a possible 
outcome from the tossing unrest of those gigantic 
forces ? ” 

That’s so,” John acknowledged, preparatory 
stages often bear but little resemblance to the per- 
fected whole, — the embryo atom to the developed 
organism.” 

For a moment Hugh was silent. His eyes had 
a far-away, rapt look, as of one standing on some 
lofty peak looking off beyond the surrounding 
desolation to a sunlit land of promise and har- 
vested hopes. At last he said, thoughtfully, If 
faith is ane o’ God’s most precious gifts to His 
children, as absolutely necessary to the growth an’ 
w^ell bein’ o’ the soul here an’ hereafter as air an’ 
exercise to the growth an’ well bein’ o’ the body, 
is it no’ a foregone conclusion that He will 
try to impress it on our naters as soon as 
possible 

“Yes, I suppose He will,” John admitted, 
reluctantly, “ but — ” 

“Hold on a minute,” continued Hugh, “that’s 
only half a truth admitted. Now suppose this 
mighty upliftin’ force can be developed only under 
certain conditions, wull it no’ be the greatest kind- 
ness to surround us with those conditions, nae 
matter what the temporary cost may be? Wud 
ye sacrifice the eternal for the temporary, the im- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


217 


mortal weight o’ glory for the passin’ gleam o’ 
earthly brightness ? ” 

John did not answer and Mac went on, *‘wi’ 
your children an’ yoursel’ ye niver do. The 
present gude is continually sacrificed for the 
future’s better. God gangs fu’ther, an’ sacri- 
fices the earthly better for the eternal best. 
That’s a’.” 

“Well, we must hope it’s all right,” John said; 
“ after all the whole thing lies in a nut-shell, the 
finite never can comprehend the infinite.” 

“No, dear,” added his wife, laying her hand ten- 
derly on his arm, “but we can trust Him, — the 
Infinite One. I do. Some day I know we shall 
see with clearer vision and be satisfied.” 

John did not reply, only looked down gravely 
into the wistful face upturned to his. 

“And now, John,” continued his wife, “if you 
will entertain Mr. McLean, Marian and I will finish 
getting supper. It will take only a few minutes, 
so don’t go far away.” 

“ Can I tell Mr. McLean, mamma } ” asked 
Marjorie, eagerly. 

“ Tell him what, dearie } ” 

Putting both arms round her mother’s neck, she 
pulled her head down and confidentially whispered 
the request. Mrs. Howard laughed merrily. 

“Oh, yes, you can tell him if you want. He 
will be much impressed by the information.” 


218 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


** What is it, baby ? ” inquired Mr. McLean, 
earnestly. “Ye need na’ be afraid to tell me 
anything.” 

“We are going to have snow pudding and awful 
nice cake to-night for supper, ’cause you’re here.” 
A roar of laughter greeted this astonishing 
announcement, and poor Marjorie, utterly con- 
founded and mortified, hid a shamed and blush- 
ing face against her mother, while childish sobs of 
genuine distress and anger shook the little frame. 
Poor child ! The sense of some inexplicable 
blunder committed, and our evident amusement 
thereat, wounded her sensitive heart to the quick 
and made the experience a very pillory in its 
effects. As usual, John’s kindly nature under- 
stood the case and came to the rescue. Gather- 
ing her tenderly in his arms he comforted her as 
only such fathers can. 

“Marjorie,” he said, enunciating every word 
with clear-cut precision, “you’re all right. You 
could not have told me anything that would please 
me more at this particular time. I tell you what, 
snow pudding and nice cake are \^ay up on a June 
night for filling in, if you’ve had a good supper 
beforehand.” 

Marjorie’s brown eyes rested on her father 
suspiciously as well as interrogatively. The com- 
pliment to her favorite dainty seemed a little 
doubtful, but John’s grave face betrayed no lurk- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


219 


ing fun, and so gradually the ruffled feathers were 
allowed to be stroked in place. A few gallops 
round the yard on papa’s shoulder completed the 
conquest, and Marjorie was once more her friendly 
little self. As he put her down beside us, after 
the last trip, she looked up in his face, sharply, and 
asked : “ Papa, why did you laugh } I didn’t say 
anything funny.” 

The question nearly brought on a fresh burst of 
laughter, but John was equal to the emergency, 
and answered gravely, “ I don’t know exactly, 
something tickled me.” 

‘‘Did it tickle everybody at the same time, papa 1 ” 
she inquired, with childlike straightforwardness. 

“I guess it did. Say, Mac,” he added, turning 
desperately to Hugh, “ what’s your opinion of 
snow pudding and nice cake, anyway.?” 

“Well, to tell the truth, John, I don’t know 
much about such kickshaws, but I’ve no 
doubt — ” 

John laughed outright. “Kickshaws, — think 
of calling your mother’s high-toned snow pudding 
by such an outlandish name as a kickshaw. 
That makes me laugh more than ever.” Glad 
of any reasonable excuse as a safety valve, we 
all joined with him. 

A merrier group than gathered round the tea- 
table that evening would be hard to find. John’s 
sunny eyes, the kindest eyes on earth, fairly 


220 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


danced with fun and happiness, and the mood was 
catching. Even Roland, not being privileged to 
laugh, entered into the spirit of the occasion and 
beat the floor with his tail in sympathy, accentuat- 
ing each new explosion of nonsense with staccato 
yelps of approval. 

“Oh, John,” said Mrs. Howard, wiping her 
eyes after a fresh burst of merriment, “ how old 
are you, anyway ? ” 

“Couldn’t tell, Mary; as I feel to-night, age has 
no existence. Time’s heart wrinkles and cipher- 
ings are all rubbed off.” 

“ I am so glad,” replied his wife, fondly. Hard 
work and worry for others are sharp, graving tools, 
but now that the mine’s sold you’ll grow young 
fast. You’ll have time to live and be more than 
a machine.” 

“ Have you sold the mine, John ? ” asked 
Hugh, looking up in surprise. 

“Well, it’s as good as sold,” John answered, 
“reliable parties have decided to buy it. I am 
only waiting for them to take possession. Had a 
telegram to-day, they’ll be here next week.” 

“That’s gude news, John, I’m mair than glad to 
hear ’t,” said Mac, his rugged face lighting up 
with pleasure. “ It’s time you had a rest ; you’ve 
had mair than a man’s share o’ hard, disappointin’ 
work, and begin to look old, although I believe 
the heart o’ ye is as young as iver.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 221 

I do feel the need of a hoi^ay, Mac,” was the 
reply ; ^‘the monotonous life takes’Lhc^Jjfin^out of 
a fellow. After being shut up in these dark holes 
in the mountain sides for a quarter of a century, it 
will be like opening a prison door and giving the 
poor, starved humanity a chance to feed and 
grow.” 

Although the chains are made of love,” sug- 
gested Mrs. Howard, and you manacle yourself, 
at best it’s a galley-slave life.” 

“Ya’,” responded John, ‘^but more than love 
chained me to the oar ; necessity was the biggest 
factor in the case. I’d have run away long ago if 
I could.” 

I suppose you’ll go East } ” inquired Hugh. 

“That’s the calculation,” answered John. 
“We’ve planned to go to Chicago to see the 
World’s Fair, and then across the water to Scot- 
land. We all need a change ; better go with us, 
Mac.” 

“Wish I could, John. Wud like to see mair o 
this world and its wonders afore I gang to the 
next, but ma time for sight-seein’ is gettin’ short. 
I’ve passed the last promised mile-stane on the 
road o’ life, three-score ’ears and ten, thank 
God, an’ the final restin’ place canna be far aff. 
Efter a’ it disna mak’ muckle difference when we 
see a thing in time or eternity ; they are one 
stream ; our position only is changed, and for the 


222 THE STOEY OF A CANON. 

better. I can wait. Trevellin’ will be aisier bye 
and bvp, too, I’m thinkin’. It winna cost ony- 
thiiig-, ciii’ we winna hae infirmities to cairry about 
wi’ us. We’ll hae larger vision an’ intelligence to 
see things wi’ then. I often think, too,” he added, 
dreamily, ‘‘ I’ll hae company then that will double 
the happiness.” 

“ Have you any family, Mr. McLean ? ” asked 
Mrs. Howard. 

“No, ma’am, ma family is a’ under ma coat,” 
he replied, sadly. “ I had a wife once, but she 
went to the better land forty years agone, and her 
place has niver been filled.” 

“Excuse me, Mr. McLean,” said Mary, gently, 
“ I spoke without thinking. I am sorry I asked 
you such a question.” 

“You needna be, Mrs. Howard,” he answered, 
“ I love to talk o’ my wife and think o’ her. She 
filled ma hame on earth wi’ sunshine for a year, 
an’ ma whole efter life wi’ precious memories. 
Efter her death I did think the light o’ life was 
foriver extinguished, and I cam’ West to bury 
mysel’ an’ ma sorrow among the quiet hills. 
Their peace, an’ abune a’, God’s peace, com- 
forted me. Efter awhile, and for mony ’ears I 
hae been content to work an’ wait. Love kens 
naething about time or space, Mrs. Howard,” he 
added, impressively. “Jessie and I will meet 
some eternal morning as if it had been yesterday. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


223 


and begin the auld sweet friendship just whaur we 
left aff.” 

For some time Marjorie had been fidgeting 
round Mr. McLean’s chair. At this point she 
interrupted shyly, saying, I want to take a walk. 
Won’t you go ” 

“Of course I will, little one,” he responded 
heartily. “ Whaur do ye want to gang to } ” 

“ Oh, everywhere. I want to see the train 
come around the bend. It’s got a big eye that 
shines.” 

“ Marjorie is very fond of being guide,” said her 
father, “and showing visitors the sights. We’re 
well off, Mac, we’ve a picture-gallery hung from 
floor to ceiling with pictures ; but if we want to see 
them to-night we’ll have to get a move on us. 
Daylight will soon be gone.” 

“ It won’t matter much,” laughed Mrs. Howard. 
“ The electric light of the moon will be turned on 
soon, and even the ceiling will be illuminated.” 

“That’s so,” answered John, “the effect will be 
finer than ever. Well, come on, come on, no say- 
ing how much we may be losing.” 

“You’re in a great hurry,” said his wife, laugh- 
ingly, “ but you needn’t try to sail under false 
colors, John, and pretend that love of the beauti- 
ful is the magnet drawing you outdoors. It’s 
more likely love of a smoke. We know you too 
well; you needn’t try to pose as an artist for us.” 


224 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“You don’t know anything about it,” John 
retorted, “or how much of an eye-opener and 
inspirer a smoke is, Mary. Never were in a posi- 
tion to judge, or you wouldn’t talk that .way. 
Through the smoke wreaths of my pipe scenery 
acquires nev/ beauty, and above all I acquire new 
faculties for seeing it, consequently it’s a duty 
for me to smoke. A man must live up to his 
convictions you know. Mac and Phil are in the 
same fix, so help yourselves to the ammunition, 
boys, there it is — and come along. In the 
interest of art and humanity we will smoke.” 

Picking up his old pipe he filled it and went 
outdoors, Marjorie and Harry tugging and caper- 
ing round him. 


CHAPTER XVTII. 


It was, indeed, a perfect night. One lofty 
table-land still shone golden in the sunshine, 
while just across the canon the white light of 
the moon shimmered on the topmost peaks, and 
stole like a misty breath over the rugged face of 
the cliffs, transforming the hard outlines to softer 
beauty. Neither sun nor moon were visible. Pur- 
ple shadows lingered in the valley and round the 
base of the mountains. Over all brooded the 
spirit of measureless calm so inseparable from 
the lonely canons. 

Isn’t this lovely.^” said Marian. 

Unspeakably so,” answered Hugh. 

“ How can any one help seeing and feeling such 
beauty ? ” she continued. 

I have often wondered how they could,” Mac 
replied, gently. ''The answer lies deep among 
the roots o’ things. It all depends on the man, 
what he sees, and out o’ his ain soul are the issues 
o’ life, even in sight-seeing. We see appreciate 
ingly only what the mind is prepared to see.” 


226 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“ Why isn’t everybody’s mind prepared to see 
such a sight as this ? ” she asked, wonderingly. 

“ Warldliness an’ selfishness are fatal causes o’ 
blindness always,” he answered, blinding not 
only to physical, but what is mair serious, to 
moral beauty. These qualities may so possess a 
nature that its power for seeing and appreciating 
ony thing great, even moral gudeness, shall be 
lost.” 

As we strolled here and there through the 
sweet-scented gloaming, the dusky folds of dark- 
ness fell closer around our feet, and at the same 
time as if rolled down by unseen fingers, the 
shadowy curtain of night disappeared from the 
north wall of the canon. In the darkened nave 
of some vast cathedral we seemed to stand, while 
slowly before our wondering eyes the magnificent 
chancel and altar piece were lighted up with the 
luminous glory from above. Oh, the majesty of 
that silent unveiling and illumination ! What 
words can image forth the mysterious transfigura- 
tion.? At our feet, gleaming through the misty 
radiance, sparkled the lights of the village ; near 
by sounded the whistle of the night train, rever- 
berating through the canon, and presently 
around a sharp buttress came the snorting, 
panting engine, with its eye of fire flashing for 
a moment across the wall of gloom. 

“What a change has come over this valley,” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


227 


Mr. McLean said, “since I first saw it. Industry 
an’ self-denial hae done wonders to reclaim the 
wilderness, — for that’s what it was then.” 

“Wasn’t much of a town at that time, I sup- 
pose ? ” John queried. 

“No town at all, jist a few cabins, but it was a 
prettier place then than now.” 

“In what respect ” I asked. 

“The mountains were covered with forests, 
and so far as scenery went it was far mair 
picturesque.” 

“That was the case when I came,” John said. 
“ It seems a pity the forests in this country are 
not better protected. If something more system- 
atic is not done soon\it will be only a question 
of time when there’ll be a timber famine.” 

“What has destroyed them.?” Mrs. Howard 
asked. 

“ Fires and mismanagement principally,” her 
husband answered, “although the various needs 
of the growing camp have made heavy inroads on 
the supply.” 

“ How beautiful the mountains would be,” ex- 
claimed Marian, “ if there were more forests on 
them.” 

“Yes,” her mother responded, “their romantic 
beauty would be wonderfully increased without in 
the least impairing their grandeur.” 

“There ought to be a regular corps of forest 


228 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


inspectors,” John went on, ‘‘scattered all over the 
forest lands, living among them and giving them 
daily supervision, just as they have in Europe. 
America might study a few leaves from German 
histor)'’ on this point to good advantage.” 

“That would give employment to a good many,” 
I suggested, “ nice kind of employment, too, and 
be a great blessing to the country at large.” 

“ How would the country be benefited by such 
an arrangement ” Mrs. Howard asked. 

“ One of the chief elements in all fine scenery, 
trees and verdure, would be preserved for the peo- 
ple,” I answered. “You can hardly estimate the 
value of such a blessing to the tired eyes and 
brains of the world’s busy workers, especially 
when you remember that most of them live in 
cities. These mountains and canons are Nature’s 
greatest picture-galleries, where her grandest mas- 
terpieces are hung ; does it not seem barbarous to 
allow commercial goths and vandals recklessly to 
mutilate and deface them 

“ How can it be prevented ? ”• asked Mrs. 
Howard. 

“ Only by Congress taking hold of the matter,” 
I said, “making the needed appropriations and 
devising some practical, scientific system for the 
protection of all public forests. There are plenty 
of men who have given the subject intelligent 
study who would be eager enough to give the 


THE TORY OP A CANON. 


229 


result of tb .r knowledge, and suggest plans, if 
they got a .fiance.” 

“ Not >nly do the forests have to be protected 
and cd cd for,” John said, “but new tracts of land 
oug)- . to be planted. There is a crying need for 
at^ .ntion to this matter, for the sake of the use- 
ful as well as the beautiful. Scarcity of forests 
means scarcity of rain or water.” 

^ “America as a nation,” I suggested, “has been 
passing through the utilitarian age ; perhaps now 
that as a result of that age millionaires have be- 
come numerous, we’ll move up and on to a broader, 
higher plane. There will be a larger class who 
have leisure to think of something besides making 
money, and who will have opportunities and influ- 
ence to put their philanthropic thoughts into 
practice.” 

“If they’ve got any to put,” John added, cynic- 
ally. “As a rule the philanthropic ideas of that 
class don’t extend very far. If they did there 
wouldn’t be this rapidly widening gulf between 
the rich and the poor.” 

“ There is too much truth in your accusation, 
John,” Hugh admitted, “an’ yet I believe in capi- 
talists. I’m glad to see the number of men in- 
creasing who can live on the interest of what 
they’ve made or their fathers before them. If 
they’re the right kind of men, they’ve a grand, 
God-like mission ahead o’ them. If they’ll only 


230 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


live wisely an’ for others, their influence will be 
like the great Father’s Himsel’, falling on the just 
an’ on] list alike, uplifting, healing, bringing to- 
gether the estranged members o’ the human 
household.” 

f “I believe in moneyed men, too,” John said. 

Possession of money gives leisure and oppor- 
tunity to cultivate the mind. As Carlyle says, 

‘ culture renders it possible for a man to become 
all that God created him capable of becoming.’ 
Working men never can become that, and prob- 
ably the rank and file of mankind will always 
have to work, consequently they will not have 
leisure to cultivate their minds, or training to 
think as profoundly as those who have more 
time. We need trained minds to think for us on 
all matters, although a large proportion of work- 
ing men are capable of sitting in judgment on 
the deliberations of trained minds after they’re 
put on record. The trouble so far has been that 
the trained minds of this country have not thought 
for the masses, but for themselves and the privi- 
leged few. The people are awakening -to that 
fact and growing rebellious.” 

*‘Do you think the masses in this country 
would ever be satisfied to let any body of men do 
their thinking for them } ” I asked. 

‘‘Yes,” John answered, “if they were satisfied 
the men were disinterested thinkers. They would 



THE STORY OF A CANON. 


231 


have to be philanthropists though, as well as 
statesmen, or the people wouldn’t trust them long. 
They’ve been fooled too often.” 

*‘What do you think is the cause of this grow- 
ing discontent and suspicion,” I said, “of this 
steadily widening breach between the rich and 
poor, between labor and capital ? It seems most 
unnatural.” 

“Selfishness is the tap-root of it all,” was John’s 
reply. “When a man through the help of his 
fellow-men piles up an enormous fortune, more 
than he can possibly make use of, and then from 
the vantage ground thus gained does nothing to 
help his brother, but on the contrary takes ad- 
vantage of his brother’s necessities to still further 
increase his own superfluities, what can be the 
effect of such an object lesson on the average 
human heart ? 

“ Through the co-operation of their fellow- 
creatures,” he continued, “men become mill- 
ionaires and immediately hedge themselves 
about with material splendor and exclusiveness, 
as if they were kings above other men. Last 
year — ten years ago, perhaps — Tom, Dick and 
Harry were all in their shirt-sleeves, working 
hard in the trenches of life ; to-day Tom’s on a 
pedestal in a dress-coat, and expects Dick and 
Harry to do him homage from a distance. Do 
you think in their hearts they’ll do it ? ” 


232 the story OF A CANON. 

“ It’ll depend on what kind of men they are,” 
I answered ; “ the less of manhood they possess, 
of course the more deference they’ll pay to him 
and his outward trappings.” 

“ The coat, the house, is but the guinea’s stamp, 
the man’s the man for a’ that,” said Hugh. 

“That’s the idea, Mac,” John responded, “work- 
ing at the heart of every true American, whether 
born in America or not ; and whatever injures that 
feeling is a great wrong to society. It’s a knife 
that cuts both ways, too. Above everything else 
towers a noble manhood ; that’s God’s patent of 
nobility. Tom on his gold pedestal is just what 
he was before, and his airs of superiority only em- 
bitter others toward him. Resentment is born 
because his pretensions have no real reason for 
being. Any man or woman who expects defer- 
ence simply because he or she has more material 
riches or outside show, is a fraud, and no man can 
acknowledge such a claim without losing his own 
self-respect and belittling himself in his own 
estimation.” 

Mr. McLean had been eyeing John sharply for 
some time ; at last he said gravely, “ Haven’t any 
communistic ideas about you, have you ? ” 

John laughed. “ Not in any radical sense, Mac. 
I believe there’s something wrong and that 
society ought to be re-organized, but gradually 
as it will bear the change. The change to be 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


23 ; 


lasting must come through the natural process of 
evolution like all great changes. It must come 
about through education of the heart. Certainly 
the present state^ of society is unnatural and can- 
not last.” 

“Whatever is unnatural is wrong,” Hugh inter- 
rupted, “ and bears within itself the seeds of 
its own destruction. The present condition of 
affairs is man-made and must be man-remedied, 
John.” 

“ What do you think the remedy is } ” I 
inquired. 

“Wise philanthropic legislation,” John answered, 
promptly. 

“ And the adoption of Christ’s principles among 
all men,” Hugh added. “Christianity lived in- 
stead of talked about is the only abiding remedy. 
Man’s legislation for man has been tried long 
enough to show it’s not much of a success. Let’s 
try Christ’s rules, not in part, but entire ; embody 
them in our lives and heaven will be begun on 
earth.” 

The evening grew cooler. The wind whispered 
of frozen secrets far away, but the spell of the 
beautiful night deepened. We could not leave it, 
and by common consent lingered on the porch and 
front steps. 

Beside me, so close I could have laid my hand 
on hers, sat Marian, but although so near. 


234 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


the stars in their cold beauty were not more 
distant. 

An indefinable barrier of reserve surrounded 
her, and from us all she “dwelt apart.” The old 
frank friendship seemed chilled. What subtle 
power had so isolated the sweet, gentle nature, 
that we who loved her could no longer bridge the 
distance between ? that even the lines of sympathy 
were down Imagination quickened by love sup- 
plied the reason all too readily, and in that answer 
was the sharpest sting. 

All through the evening, even in the midst of 
his fun and boyish light-heartedness, I had noticed 
John’s eyes resting on her occasionally with a 
grave kindness not usual. He felt the change 
evidently, but it could not be to him what it was 
to me. No matter what the future should bring, 
no change could ever sweep Marian out of his life 
as it might out of mine. 

Usually our circle was complete in itself, but 
for that night Mac’s presence and cheery talk on 
outside matters was a relief. The restraint was 
not so noticeable. 

“Often when I look down on Hopetown,” said 
Mrs. Howard, “and see the lights of its many 
happy homes, my heart aches.” 

“ Why, mamma ? ” asked Marian. 

“ Because,” answered her mother, “ its very ex- 
istence depends on one thing — silver. If the value 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


235 


of that should be taken away, or fall too low, even, 
the mines will have to stop working and the happy 
homes be deserted. That would mean so much to 
so many, more than you can realize, my daughter.” 

“Ya’, that’s right, Mary,” John said, “it means 
a whole lot. These homes that so many miners 
own are all they have to show for years of hard 
work, the only savings-bank they’ve been putting 
their earnings into.” 

“ If the Sherman law is ever repealed, I re- 
marked, “ and no better substitute given, we’ll be 
in a bad fix in these canons.” 

“ More than these canons will be in a bad fix,” 
was John’s reply. “Unconditional repeal of the 
Sherman act, miserable make-shift as that is, 
means dropping to the gold standard, and the 
miseries involved will be beyond computation.” 

“What do you suppose the local effect would 
be ” Mrs. Howard inquired. 

“No one could tell that,” her husband replied; 
“ it would all depend on the effect it had on the 
price of silver, but I’m afraid it would be dis- 
astrous to our national prosperity. Of course the 
silver industry wouldn’t die in a month or a year, 
there’s too much vigorous life in it for that ; but 
deprived of all money value, it would be only a 
question of time when silver mining would cease 
to be a paying investment. 

“ People who have property in these silver 


236 


THE STORY OE A CANON. 


canons, and have invested their all of time and 
strength, as well as money, would cling to the old 
life in any event, like sailors to a sinking ship.” 

Poor fellows,” I said. They would prob- 
ably feel that no boat could ever come to take 
them to a new land of promise and fresh begin- 
nings elsewhere.” 

“Even if actual starvation and desolation did 
not follow,” John went on, “the brightness of liv- 
ing would be destroyed. Life would degenerate to 
a hard scratch and scramble for bare existence. 
Under certain limited conditions a man may keep 
soul and body together, but would life then be 
worth living ? I bet the fellows back East and in 
London who talk so glibly about the advantages 
of a gold standard wouldn’t think so. When 
people are wrapped up in the eider-down of com- 
fort and luxury themselves, it’s easy to theorize 
about the pleasures of winter.” 

“ Hasn’t silver been used as a money from time 
immemorial ? ” asked Mrs. Howard. 

“Yes,” replied Hugh, “very early in the history 
of the human race we read in the Bible that Abra- 
ham was very rich in cattle and in silver and gold, 
also that he bought a piece of land from Ephron, 
the Hittite, for 400 shekels of silver, current money 
wi’ the merchant.” 

“From that time,” John continued, “all through 
the ages, wherever civilization has existed, the two 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


237 


metals have been linked together and used as 
money. History, both sacred and profane, attests 
this.” 

“It would seem as if God Himself created them 
for this purpose,” McLean suggested, “stored them 
in the same treasure-house an’ directed mankind 
by divine intuition how to use them.” 

“ Silver has always been the people’s money,” 
interrupted John, “and under the reign of free 
coinage the nation prospered. Had the people 
but known it, their best financial friend was 
stabbed when silver was demonetized in 1873.” 

“They did not comprehend the far-reaching 
nature of that measure then,” I suggested, “nor 
the upas-like effect it was to have on after years. 
Many financial seers assert that the poisonous 
shadow is creeping over the land and slowly 
paralyzing every energy, to-day.” 

“The trouble is,” John said, “ the very classes 
who are most affected by this great question are 
the ones who take the least interest in it.” 

“That’s so,” responded Hugh. “Ignorance 
has always been the worst enemy of the poor, 
blindin’ them to their own best interests till too 
late, — makin’ them convenient steppin’ stones 
upon which their shrewder and more unscrupu- 
lous brothers could climb to still greater riches 
and power.” 

“ What a pity humanity’s foresight, individually 


238 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


and collectively, is not as good as their hind- 
sight,” said John, humorously. 

“ The millennium would be nearer than it is in 
that case,” continued Mac. “ Maybe if Adam and 
Eve could have taken a backward glance through 
the telescope of time, they would not have done 
what they did and the fall would never have 
taken place.” 

“Was it a fall,” asked John, musingly, “or 
the first step in a long ascent ?” 

“ Both, perhaps,” replied Hugh ; “ a fall out of a 
garden where the highest attribute was flower- 
like innocence, into an arena where combatants 
wrestled with good and evil and the reward was 
character. Eden could na produce that.” 

“That’s kind of deep sea doctrine,” objected 
John, “ — off soundings, — let’s get nearer shore 
where we can touch bottom. You were talking 
of the silver question.” 

“ Well,” continued Mac, “ we were speakin’ of the 
existence of silver as money from the dawn of his- 
tory till now. In 1873, when discussing the res- 
toration of the white metal to its old time-honored 
position, Blaine stated in Congress that 'silver 
had been money anterior to the American consti- 
tution.’ ” 

“ The founders of that constitution never ques- 
tioned its right in the financial system of this 
country,” John said. “ They looked on gold and 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


239 


silver as the warp and woof of the monetary 
fabric, inextricably woven together.” 

“Abraham Lincoln,” Mac resumed, “greatest 
of Americans, divine almost in the greatness and 
simplicity of his character, sent a special message 
of encouragement to the miners of the West by 
Mr. Colfax in 1865. I quote from memory, but there 
is a copy of the message at my cabin, and I know 
this is pretty nearly word for word. ‘Tell them,’ 
he said, ‘ I am going to encourage the mining of gold 
and silver in every possible way.’ Evidently in his 
mind there was no discrimination against silver. 
‘ We shall have hundreds of thousands of dis- 
banded soldiers to care for, and I am going to try 
to attract them to the hidden wealth of our mount- 
ain ranges where there is room enough for all. 
Immigration, which even the war has not stopped, 
will land upon our shores hundreds of thousands 
more per year from over-crowded Europe. I 
intend to point them to the gold and silver that 
waits them in the West. Tell the miners for me 
that I shall promote their interests to the best of 
my ability, because their prosperity is the prosperity 
of the nation, and we shall prove in a very few 
years that we are indeed the treasury of the 
world.’ ” 

“ Abraham Lincoln didn’t have any interest in 
silver mines then or ever,” John said, “so that 
statement was certainly disinterested. The pros- 


240 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


perity of the miners was sectional, but their cause 
was not, and he realized that. That cause is as 
much national now as it was then.” 

“ Little did Honest Abe dream of the conspiracy, 
English born and bred, that was soon to ripen 
in this country, — a conspiracy to lock up 
half of these treasure-houses, thereby robbing 
the people of half their birthright. Had he done 
so he would never have invited the disbanded sol- 
diers, in the name of the government, to invest their 
time and strength, their little all, in property which 
a few years later the same government would leg- 
islate to destroy.” 

“Ay, and on what a plea,” said John, — “over- 
production. Surely a manufactured pretext like 
that is too thin to hold logic or wear long.” 

“ What do you think of the argument of some of 
the monometallists,” asked Mac, “that silver has 
no more right to be protected than wheat ? ” 

“ It seems the veriest nonsense to me,” was 
John’s reply. “ Same objection of course can be 
applied to gold ; then what will we do for a stand- 
ard of value ? We must have one. Out of all the 
multitude of things used throughout the ages as 
materal for coin, by common consent gold and 
silver have been chosen and have survived as the 
fittest. Their great durability and the ease with 
which coins made from them can be weighed and 
tested, are reasons for this preference. Common 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


241 


sense has governed the selection in past ages, com- 
mon usage adheres to it. Indestructibility in a 
monetary basis is a very great advantage, because 
th6 annual supply of bullion or money is a mere drop 
in the bucket when compared with the total amount 
in existence, and this fact removes the element of 
instability of value, one of the most dangerous 
qualities any monetary system can possess.” 

“I wonder,” inquired Mrs. Howard, “if people 
who talk of the right of wheat to protection ever 
think that the farmers reap a harvest every year, 
but the crop of silver was sown once for all ? Once 
gathered from the rocky fields the supply is 
exhausted, and can never be re-sown.” 

Far up on the mountain’s breast, twinkling like 
a fallen star against the background of rocks, 
gleamed a solitary light. It came from some 
miner’s lonely cabin, perched nest-like on the edge 
of precipitous cliffs. Looking at this starry mys- 
tery, she added, musingly : “For four or five years I 
have hardly ever missed seeing that light. Every 
night as unfailingly as a light-house beacon it 
shines out. I wonder often who lives up there 
and what success they’re having. Are they reap- 
ing a harvest do you suppose .? ” 

“ The fact that we don’t know who lives there all 
these years, Mary, is sufficient answer,” was her 
husband’s reply. “In these parts success is a 
city set on a hill that cannot be hid,” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“Going to church to-day, Mac ?” asked John the 
next morning. 

“ Yes ; aren’t you ? ” 

“ No, guess not. I’m kind of a heathen. The 
rest of the family do the church going for me 
generally.” 

“They canna do that, John,” was Mac’s quiet 
reply. “ In such a case no one can substitute for 
anither.” 

“ Don’t you think a fellow can get as much good 
staying home reading, or walking out studying 
nature, as boxing himself up in a close church 
these beautiful days ” queried John. 

“As churches are built an’ ventilated, possibly 
he’ll get mair gude bodily,” Mac answered with 
grave deliberation, “ and as the average minister 
is built and equipped, very likely he may get mair 
mentally by stayin’ away, but a kirk is no’ designed 
either for a sanitarium or a college. It is the 
nursery o’ the soul for eternity ; no’ as good as 
might be, maybe, but the best we’ve got. Man 
needs certain things, must have them for his perfe’t 

242 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


243 


development. He’s got to gang there for his 
supplies.” 

“ What supplies do the churches possess that we 
can’t get elsewhere.^” John asked. 

“ The soul has its ain peculiar needs,” was the 
reply, ‘‘just as the mind and body hae, an’ the kirk 
an’ Sabbath were divinely instituted for the special 
purpose of caring for these needs an’ keepin’ up 
livin’ connection wi’ God. Souls grow accordin’ 
to law as surely as flowers do, and special soil an’ 
surroundin’s are needed for the development o’ 
baith. What’s life to wan part of a man’s natur’ 
may be starvation to anither. Gymnastics winna 
develop the mind, an’ the study o’ mathematics or 
natur’ winna feed the soul.” 

“ Do you mean to say, Mac, that a man can’t be 
religious unless he goes to church ? ” asked John. 

“ By no means. All I say is that I dinna think 
he’ll grow as fast spiritually out o’ the kirk as in’t. 
Worship is or ought to be the life o’ the soul an* 
the atmosphere o’ the kirk. They were made for 
ain anither, and what God hath joined thegither, let 
not man put asinder.” 

Just then Mrs. Howard made her appearance. 

“You ought to have been here a little sooner, 
Mary,” said her husband. “ I feel like a school- 
boy. Mac has been giving me quite a lecture on 
the duty and necessity of going to church.” 

“I am glad of it,” was the rejoinder. 


244 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*‘I tell hira,” continued John, '‘you folks attend 
to that for me, but he don’t believe in substitutes.” 

" This substitutin’ is often a puir transaction 
for yoursel’,” responded Mac. "Don’t pay. As 
a rule the men wha hired substitutes durin’ the 
war lost mair in character-bein’ than they iver 
gained in material well-bein’. Self-sacrifice o’ ain’s 
inclinations to duty always pays, an’ the greater 
the sacrifice the greater the gain.” 

At that moment a childish voice was heard 
calling, " Mr. McLean, won’t you come out and I’ll 
get you a pretty bootay.” 

Accepting the invitation with ready good nature, 
Mac started outdoors. As he disappeared Mrs. 
Howard turned to her husband and said earnestly : 
" John, won’t you go with us this forenoon ? There 
is such a curious presentiment resting on my heart. 
If you don’t go to-day I feel as if you would never 

go-” 

John looked down at the earnest, troubled 
face of his wife, and laid a hand caressingly on her 
shoulder ere he spoke. "Why, Mary, what non- 
sense you talk. If I had a decent suit of clothes 
to wear I’d go to church with you this morning. 
I guess Mac’s more than half right. To please 
you I’ll promise to go next Sunday. I’ll get a 
new suit and go. The mine will be off my hands, 
and I’ll have money to go shopping with.” 

"Never mind your clothes, John,” pleaded his 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 245 \ 

\ 

wife. I don’t care for them. It’s the man in- 
side I’m after. Come with us now, — please do.” 

'‘Not to-day, Mary, I’m too shabby ; wouldn’t 
feel comfortable looking this way. Wait a week 
and maybe I’ll always go with you. To be candid, 
half my reason for staying from church and other 
places has been want of a decent rig.” 

It was true. For all his hard work and thread- 
bare life, John for years had not been properly 
clothed to go anywhere. If the shoes were good 
the hat was not. If the trousers were decent the 
coat was worn. But until power to change this 
condition of things was apparently within reach, 
we had not known that dress had any existence in 
his mind. Much lay back of the confession. 

(We hold our dear ones with a firm, strong grasp, 

We hear their voices, look into their eyes; 

And yet betwixt us in that clinging grasp, 

A distance lies.) 

Mary’s eyes grew dim, and with a sudden pas- 
sionate movement she hid her face on his breast. 

" That’s all right little woman,” he said kindly ; 

“ don’t feel badly. We’re nearly out of the woods 
now I hope.” 

When we started for church he came to the 
front door to see us off and wave a cheery good- 
bye. I shall always remember him as he looked 
then. No shadow rested on the kind face, the 
brown eyes, "tender and true,” had a sunny light 


246 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


in their dark depths, and beyond the power of 
shabby clothes to conceal was the dignity of a 
simple, noble manhood. 

At the foot of the hill, coming up to meet us, we 
met Charlie Hey wood. How handsome he looked. 
A new gray suit of perfect fit and quality set off 
to the best advantage the tall, straight figure ; the 
clear skin glowed with the color and texture of 
perfect health, and the whole personality seemed 
the incarnation of physical well-being and pros- 
perity. Very unmistakable was Marian’s pleasure 
at the meeting. The delicate, sensitive face mir- 
rored that but too plainly. For a moment as I 
looked at his strong, young beauty, and realized 
its magnetic power, my heart filled with bitterness 
and hatred. My own personality seemed so poor 
and fragmentary in comparison. Then like a flash 
in a dark night came the remembrance of John, 
tired, travel-stained, time-worn with constant ex- 
posure to life’s unresting sea, yet full of a spiritual 
beauty and strength no symmetry of form could 
ever possess. That remembrance rested like a 
quieting hand on a fevered brow, and exorcised the 
ugly demon within. Hope might die, but faith in 
the eternal verities still lived, and if will power 
and effort could avail, selfishness and hatred should 
not take possession of my soul to degrade and 
narrow it. The current of destiny might be 
stronger than my will or wishes, and Marian might 


THE STORY OE A CANON. 


247 


be borne out of my life and possession even as a 
friend, but beyond my highest love she could 
never drift. If her heart had gone out to another 
she could not help it. If that other were not 
worthy of her, all the more would she need the 
unselfish devotion of friends. What were my love 
worth if I could not think of her first and serve her 
to the bitter end 

“ How pale ypu look, Philip,” said Mrs. 
Howard. 

‘‘Do I It’s a warm morning and last week’s 
experiences were trying,” I answered, smilingly. 

Very keenly did the friendly eyes scan my face, 
but no human scrutiny could read the secret writ- 
ten there. “ The heart knew its own bitterness” 
and could keep its own counsel. 

All around floated the scents and sounds of 
summer, and as we passed along the streets of 
Hopetown the gladness of the June day seemed 
reflected from each face. The beautiful morn- 
ing bad no hint of failure or discouragement in 
its sunny presence, and unconsciously each heart 
responded to nature’s key-note of joyous hope. 
The spirit of the frolicsome Fourth was already 
abroad in the land, and plans were discussed and 
compared for the very best investment of its 
golden hours. In conjunction with circus-day it 
divided the honors, representing the two yearly 
outings of the miners, the bright spots in their 


248 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


colorless lives. Picnics to favorite nooks, excur- 
sions to Denver, fishing trips to neighboring 
lakes, the celebration at Silver Ridge were 
among the rival attractions ; but the tide set 
strongly in favor of the latter. The boys there 
had made so many preparations and manifested 
such cordial hospitality in their invitations, that 
public sentiment seemed to trend that way. 

Not often did Charlie Heywood find his way 
inside a church door, but that morning he accom- 
panied Marian. History, especially love history, 
repeats itself they say, and a woman has been the 
heart of a man’s religion in more centuries than 
one. The witchery of her presence has drawn 
him into many a paradise ; could that witchery 
but keep him there, life would be a richer herit- 
age. 

After service he walked home with us, Mrs. 
Howard and Mr. McLean were considerably 
ahead. 

“Where did you pick up that old codger, 
Marian ? ” Charlie asked, glancing contemptu- 
ously in the direction of Hugh. 

“Why, Charlie, how you talk. What do you 
mean.'^” was the indignant rejoinder. “Mr. 
McLean is a friend of ours. I think he’s one 
of the grandest looking men T ever saw, — 
looks like a real patriarch.” 

“ Oh, excuse me,” was the bantering reply, “ I 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


249 


didn’t know he was a pet of jours or I wouldn’t 
have used such an expression. Didn’t suppose he 
was your style, but there’s no accounting for 
ladies’ tastes.” 

“You saw he was walking with mamma, that 
ought to have been enough,” was the pointed 
reply. “ I only wish he was a friend of mine, I 
should consider it an honor.” 

“Wonder where in the dickens he got that suit,” 
Charlie said. “ It’s immense, really quite striking, 
you know.” 

The check of the weather-worn trousers was 
pretty large, it is true, but Marian’s loyalty to her 
friend could see no blemishes even in his ward- 
robe, at least did not permit of their mention. 

“ Mr. McLean lives up Pine Tree Gulch,” she 
explained, “and hardly ever goes from home. He 
has no one to look after his belongings and tell 
him how he looks, besides he’s interested in more 
important matters than dress.” 

“By the looks of him I should say he was,” 
Charlie retorted. The spirit of banter had pos- 
session of the young man and he went on teas- 
ingly. “I’d like to get the address of his tailor.” 
Had he not been absorbed in his own diversion, in 
the somewhat cruel sport of impaling the old man 
on his coarse witticisms, Charlie would have real- 
ized his mistake, but apparently he did not. After 
a few moments’ silence he continued in the same 


250 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


strain : Seriously, Marian, aren’t you almost 
ashamed to be seen on the street with such a 
guy ? He’s a regular scarecrow.” 

Marian’s eyes flashed. “No, I’m not ashamed, 
not a bit. Any fool that’s got a few dollars can be 
a walking fashion plate, but it takes more than a 
tailor to make a man.” 

“Phew! what a chip of the old block it is,” he 
said, smiling down on the flushed, indignant face. 
“You’re a true daughter of the Howard house. 
How becoming it is for you to get mad.” 

Marian gave him a glance that would have anni- 
hilated him had he been of a sensitive nature. 

“Say, Philip,” he continued, turning to me, 
“did it lighten just now.!* Something bright 
struck me.” 

“Wonder it didn’t kill you,” was the quick 
reply. 

Charlie laughed outright. “ Because of the 
unusual occurrence, eh ? I’ve really succeeded in 
stroking her hair the wrong way.” 

“ Papa said the other day,” Marian went on, 
“perhaps you were color-blind. I think you are, 
and in more ways than one.” 

“The idea,” he retorted, “because I can see no 
beauty in piles of old rock, and in fossils with col- 
lections of old clothes huddled on them. I sup- 
pose that’s what artists call picturesque. Pity I’m 
not an artist.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


251 


“ Have you no appreciation of soul beauty, of 
character, when you see it shining right out of a 
face ? ” Marian asked, looking at him curiously. 

‘‘Yes,” was the gallant reply, “when I see it 
shining out of a pretty girl’s face,” and the look 
in her own direction gave personal meaning to the 
words. 

“ Oh, Charlie,” she exclaimed impatiently, 
don’t talk that way, it sounds silly.” 

“ Don’t you like compliments ? ” he asked. 
“You’re the first girl I ever came across that 
didn’t, but you always were different from other 
girls. I remember as a youngster I could never 
make up by giving you candy.” 

“ Do you call such speeches compliments } ” 
she retorted. “You might as well offer me a 
string of glass beads and expect me to be 
pleased. They seem as tawdry and common.” 

By this time we had reached the gate of “ Rest- 
A-While.” Marian paused. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me in ? ” he asked. 

“You can come in if you want to,” was the in- 
different reply. 

“Don’t be angry, Marian,” he said. “I just 
wanted to tease you, — that was all. You wouldn’t 
let a little thing like that make trouble between 
us ? ” 

“ I don’t think it was a little thing,” she 
answered. 


252 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“ I do,” he said. ‘‘What difference can it make 
what I say about an old moss-back like that, a man 
you hardly know, may never see again V 

“ If you can’t understand, Charlie, without an 
explanation, none that I could give would make 
things any clearer. We don’t feel alike, that’s 
all.” 

“Will you forgive me then } ” he asked, holding 
out his hand, “and I’ll promise never to make fun 
of your fads any more. Perhaps you can teach 
me to appreciate them.” 

I could see Marian wince at his utter want of 
comprehension, but she took the offered hand. 

Realizing at this point the truth of the old 
proverb, “ two’s company, three’s none,” I left 
them and proceeded in-doors. Evidently the 
broken peace was soon restored, for a few min- 
utes afterwards, looking out of my bed-room win- 
dow, I saw them sitting under the shade of the 
trees, and by the kindling glow on Charlie’s face 
as he watched his companion, I knew it was well 
with them. 


CHAPTER XX. 

That afternoon when the cool shadow of the 
house rested like a benediction on the parched 
grass, some one suggested that probably an ad- 
journment from the substance to the shadow might 
be an improvement. It was a happy thought, and 
the exchange from the close rooms to the breezy, 
spicy outdoors was a pleasant one. As we lay 
under the innumerable rustling fans of the green 
trees, among the shadowy chimneys and gables of 
the old house, many a tired traveler looked long- 
ingly in from the dusty highway, occasionally stop- 
ping for a chat over the fence or coming in for a 
drink of the clear water dripping just back of us. 
Insect life being rather numerous and familiar, 
Mrs. Howard and Marian selected chairs for 
protection. The others threw themselves upon 
the ground. John lay half reclining on his elbow, 
one hand resting on the grass. 

^‘What are you looking at so intently.^” asked 
his wife. 

‘‘I am following Solomon’s advice, mother, ^con- 
sider the ant and be wise.’ They’re making a 

253 


254 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


regular thoroughfare of me, packing all kinds of 
merchandise across my hand. It’s quite interest- 
ing to watch them. Come and see.” 

“Oh, papa,” said Marian, “don’t it make you 
creep and crawl to have those creatures running 
all over you } ” 

“ Oh, no, I leave that to them. I am lying still, 
learning wisdom,” was the reply. 

“Don’t your teachers sometimes enforce their 
arguments rather pointedly ” inquired Mrs. 
Howard. 

“Yes, sometimes; like the Irishman’s wasp, 
‘they’ve got a mighty hot fut,’ but that’s the price 
I pay for indulging my curiosity. It’s worth it. 
Did you folks learn any wisdom this morning } ” 

“ Oh, yes, I always learn something when I go 
out,” Mrs. Howard said, “and on my way to and 
from church I learned a good deal.” 

“ Gossip ” inquired John, teasingly. 

“No,” was the smiling answer; “my gossip is 
friendly interest in my neighbors, and if you could 
read my motives I think you would not criticise 
them. I like to know what my neighbors are 
doing, — how they are getting along ; but it’s not 
from curiosity but sympathy, and because I like 
them, — like to enter into their lives. A great deal 
of the indifference and reserve that people in older 
places pride themselves on is only selfishness.” 

“Well, maybe, Mary,” her husband answered. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


255 


“ I guess you’re all right, but it would be hard to 
tell which side of the fence some folks were 
on.” 

“ I got quite a family history this morning from 
several,” Mrs. Howard continued, ^‘and had a 
chance both to rejoice and sympathize. Lots of 
people are planning to go to the Fair. They’re 
perfectly carried away with the idea, can talk of 
nothing else, are willing to make any sacrifice to 
get there.” 

“I’m glad of that,” John said, “hope they can 
make it. It will be the one event of their lives ; 
everything will date from that. Ten days in Chi- 
cago will be a revelation, and they’ll bring back so 
many new thoughts that the whole place will be 
benefited. The old monotonous life will never be 
so narrow again.” 

From where we sat the brow of the hill over 
which the road dips suddenly toward Hopetown 
was prominently visible. White and still in the 
heat it lay, except when occasionally puffs of wind 
swept down the canon and slender dust columns 
whirled in slow mazy dances across it. As my 
eyes rested dreamily on this spot, a familiar form 
came momentarily into view, riding slowly across 
the line of vision. It was Mr. Heywood, Sr. 
He was a rare visitor at our house, but occasion- 
ally business brought him there. It did that 
afternoon. Rather reluctantly, I fancied, John 


256 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


rose and went to meet him. They were not con- 
genial, but only close observation would have re- 
vealed the fact. The gentle consideration for 
others, which formed such a conspicuous part of 
John’s nature, was ever in advance of his greeting 
to old and young, even to the dumb animal in his 
road. 

In a few moments they came towards us. Mr. 
Hey wood was a large, pompous looking man, a 
coarser likeness of his son. 

How very picturesque and comfortable you 
look here, Mrs. Howard,” he said, shaking hands. 
“I noticed you from the road.” 

We feel as comfortable as we look, Mr. Hey- 
wood. Will you take this chair, or do you prefer 
a seat in the grass } ” 

Thank you, madam, I will take the chair. I 
am not fond of lowly seats, nor back ones either. 
I always calculate to get the best that’s going.” 
With a complacent smile at his own frankness 
he sat down. The fact that he had dispossessed 
one of the ladies of a seat was ignored, if indeed 
it was noticed. Marian had quietly relinquished 
her own chair, gently pushing her mother into it. 
She now stood behind, resting one hand on her 
shoulder. Towards her, standing there in all the 
unconscious purity and grace of a lovely flower 
Mr. Heywood’s eyes turned with bold admiration 
not unmixed with surprise. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


257 


*^Well, Miss Marian, you and time seem to 
agree pretty well,” he said. *'You develop new 
charms every time we meet. Egad ! Tm not sur- 
prised at Charlie’s fancy for this neighborhood. 
A sight of you is magnet strong enough to draw 
a man anywhere, even to the top of Pike’s Peak; 
makes me want to be young again myself.” The 
outspoken compliment and admiration were evi- 
dently distasteful, for the color deepened in the 
tell-tale face, and with an air of embarassed annoy- 
ance Marian excused herself on some trifling pre- 
text and withdrew. 

*‘Shy as a deer and as unapproachable,” laughed 
Mr. Hey wood. She’ll get over that bye and bye, 
and take to compliments as naturally as a duck to 
water, — crave them as she will candy and diamonds. 
All pretty girls do, and by Jove she is a pretty 
girl ; haven’t seen anything as really fine for many 
a day. Where did she get that high-bred air, I 
wonder } ” 

Probably from the same source as the lily,” 
suggested Mac. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” Heywood agreed; “her 
face makes you think of a flower, a kind of 
spiritual beauty about it. I tell you what, 
Howard, if you were worth a million or two and 
knew how to play your cards to good advantage, 
that girl of yours could make a great match. As 
it is she can do well if she is properly managed, 


258 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Don’t let her get entangled with anybody that 
hasn’t money. That advice is disinterested.” 

John looked annoyed. “My daughter is not in 
the market, Mr. Heywood,” he said a little shortly ; 
“don’t think she ever will be. When she’s old 
enough to think of such things I hope she’ll 
marry as her mother did before her, for love, with 
this difference, only, that I sincerely trust her 
choice will be more of a success financially than 
Mary’s was.” 

“ If she feels as her mother did and does,” re- 
sponded Mrs. Howard, looking steadfastly at her 
husband, “money or the want of it won’t make 
any difference. I’d rather be married to you poor, 
than to any other man rich.” 

A curious inner light flashed into John’s eyes 
as he raised them for an instant to his wife’s. 
The telegraphy between souls was at work, and a 
lifetime of perfect trust and love was transmitted 
in the glance. Mr. Heywood looked slightly non- 
plussed, as if some old manuscript of unintelligible 
hieroglyphics had been unexpectedly thrust in his 
face, but he said courteously enough, “ I’m sure 
such sentiments do you credit, but they’re getting 
obsolete, out of date, very good in theory but not 
practical enough to live by these days of competi- 
tion. Money’s the almighty power to-day, the 
lever that moves the world.” 

I do not underestimate the value of money,” 


THE STORY OF A CAJ70N. 


259 


answered Mary, and yet the best things in the 
world cannot be bought with it.” 

I’d like to know what money can’t get in 
this world that’s worth getting,” retorted Hey- 
wood. 

Lots of things,” said Mrs. Howard. “It can’t 
buy a single moral quality ; character, religion, 
love, are beyond its purchasing power, and what’s 
life without them .? ” 

“ That may be very fine kingdom of heaven 
doctrine,” Mr. Heywood asserted obstinately, “but 
it’s not practical. If any one should ask me ac- 
cording to catechism * What is the chief end of 
man’ here below ? I should answer to make money, 
all he can and as fast as he can. That’s my be- 
lief, I have lived up to it and am honest enough 
to say so ; no hypocrisy about me.” 

“ I don’t question your sincerity,” responded 
Mary, smiling pleasantly, “your creed and practice 
have always corresponded, Mr. Heywood. I only 
wish mine did as truly.” 

“ Money’s the best friend I’ve got,” continued 
Heywood, “and as long as I’ve got that I’ve got 
friends, entrance to the best society, all the com- 
forts of life, a good home, and above all things, 
power. You can’t deny that, Mrs. Howard.” 

“Yes, from my stand-point I can and do,” was 
the earnest reply. “ Money may buy a house, a 
palace even, but not a home ; it may' gather a lot 


260 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


of people round you who’ll enjoy your hospitality 
and live off you, but not a circle of friends. A 
friend values me for what I am, not for what I 
have, — for what he can get out of me ; so money 
can’t buy friendship, or the want of money lose 
it.” 

At least you can’t have good society without 
money,” Heywood said. “It takes that to make 
the wheels of life run smooth.” 

“ Good society is composed of well-bred, intelli- 
gent ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Howard re- 
sponded. “ Money never has, never can make 
either. Its possession doesn’t even include 
politeness.” 

“ How about power } ” 

. “ It does not even give power, in the true sense 
of the word,” she answered. “ The power and in- 
fluence of a noble manhood or womanhood is 
infinitely more far-reaching.” 

“ You’d make a pretty good lawyer,” Heywood 
answered gallantly. “You’ve made out a pretty 
good case, but ‘ a man convinced against his will 
is of the same opinion still.’ ” 

“ If you want to know the real power of money,” 
John said, quietly, “try to do without it. The 
want of a thing often shows its real value.” 

“ I’m not foolish enough to want to do without 
it,” replied Mrs. Howard. “ Money rightly gotten 
is one of the greatest blessings of the world, — a 


THE STORY OF A CAJVON. 


261 


thing to be desired. I realize that fully, but I do 
think its value is overestimated.” 

“ And like gold that value is constantly appre- 
ciating,” John suggested. 

“A man or woman’s highest life doesn’t consist 
in the abundance of material things he pos- 
sesseth,” Mary added. 

‘‘ Well, perhaps the fundamentals of life may be 
independent of money,” acknowledged her hus- 
band, “ but I tell you the average man’s existence 
is not worth much without it. Toil from January 
to January is a cruel necessity in most men’s 
lives. Possession of money means freedom from 
that, a vacation once in a while, leisure to think, 
books, travel, intlependence for one’s self and for 
those you love,” — John’s voice trembled; great 
heavens ! what does it not mean ? ” 

“Money’s a blessin’, a great blessin’,” inter- 
posed Hugh, relapsing as usual with him when 
deeply interested into the homely dialect of his 
native land ; “ if ye dinna pay ower big a price 
for’t, but as I aince heard a mon say, it manna be 
gotten at the outlay o’ mair than it’s worth.” 

“What outlay would that be ” Mrs. Howard 
asked. 

“The outlay o’ character,” Mac replied. “If 
ye’ve got to lose that an’ your ain self-respect, 
ye’d better lat money makin’ alane. It winna’ 
pay in this world or the next.” 


262 


THE STORY OF A CA^ON. 


Money making pays dividends all right in this 
world,” Mr. Hey wood said confidently, “ and I’ll 
let the next take care of itself.” 

“Weel, Mr. Heywood,” Mac responded fear- 
lessly, “that’s no verra gude business doctrine. If 
ye ken ye’ve got a bill to meet some day an’ hae a 
settlement for, it’s no verra wise policy to pigeon- 
hole’t an’ make nae preparation to meet it, espe- 
cially when God’s the creditor. The day o’ reckon- 
in’s sure to come.” 

“You spoke just now,” John said, “of a man 
losing his character and his self-respect. Do you 
think there’s necessarily any connection between 
the two } ” 

“ There was meant to be,” Hugh answered. 
“One’s cause, other effect.” 

“ They don’t always work that way in this 
world then,” was John’s reply. “I’ve known lots 
of folks who hadn’t any character, but their self- 
respect was all right.” 

“Self-conceit, more likely,” Hugh made answer. 
“ One’s a bad imitation o’ the ither, but in ony 
event it was the worse for them. When a man 
hasna’ even the grace to be ashamed o’ his mean- 
ness there’s nae chance o’ a cure. Just as long 
as he’s no’ weel pleased wi’ himsel’, an’ has re- 
morse o’ conscience, there’s hopes o’ him. To be 
mean an’ no ken yer mean is an awfu’ misfortune, 
baith for the mon an’ his neebour.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


263 


“There’s one thing,” John said, “If the man 
kills something out of his own higher life in mak- 
ing a fortune his children won’t suffer for it, and 
that’s generally what men work for. The self- 
sacrifice is the redeeming point in the matter.” 

“ But whaur does the self-sacrifice come in ? ” 
asked Hugh. “To work for your family after a’ 
is jist a bigger selfishness. It’s your duty up to 
a certain point to do that, but if your gude will 
an’ above all your gude deeds gang nae fu’ther 
than your ain, there’s nae unselfishness about ye. 
They winna escape the consequences o’ your 
graspin,’ sneakin’, cheatin ways, either. As a man 
sows so will he reap, and so will his family to the 
third and fourth generation. He can lave the fort- 
une he maybe lost his soul to get to his bairns, 
but he’ll hae to lave the character he needed to 
mak’ the fortune wi’ into the bargain, an’ that’ll 
be burned into their very naters. The dollars 
and cents will be an easy matter to get rid o’, 
generally is, but no’ the character they were 
wrapped up in. It’s a pretty dangerous experi- 
ment,” he added, solemnly, “to be bankrupt in 
character when 3"ou quit here, for that’s the only 
entrance fee to the better land, the only stock in 
trade a mon will hae to commence wi’ on the 
other side o’ death.” 

The old man was so tremendously in earnest, 
and had drifted so far from every-day moorings 


264 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


that things began to look strained. John came to 
the rescue by remarking, in that quiet, matter of 
fact way peculiarly his own : “ So far as posses- 
sion of money goes, I believe in moderation ; it 
ought to be the birthright of every man and woman 
willing to work for it, and ought to exist for that 
class from generation to generation by a law as 
binding as that of entail.” 

Don’t you think it generally does } ” I asked. 

“No, can’t say I do,” John answered. “Many 
a man and woman, willing, eager to work, can’t get 
anything to do ; many more are compelled to work 
for starvation prices. Life is nothings but a con- 
stant grind. Any country,” he went on earnestly, 
“where men, women and children are allowed, far 
less forced to go without the necessities of life, 
and among these necessities I include education, 
is neither civilized, humane nor Christian. In 
fact, they are below the level of the savage tribes 
in some respects, for there every able-bodied man 
can at least own a wigwam and keep from starv- 
ing. A nation’s standing ought to be measured 
by the condition of the lowest and poorest, not 
by the highest ; by the lines of shanties along the 
railroad tracks in every large city, not by its streets 
of palace homes.” 

Here Mr. Heywood, looking as if apoplexy 
might be among the near possibilities, burst in 
excitedly: “Why, John Howard, I am really 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


265 


astonished at your radicalism. Such doctrines 
are dangerous. If they should spread they might 
bring on a revolution. You must be careful not 
to scatter such fire-brands.” 

‘‘ Fire-brands are they ^ ” asked John, musingly ; 
“ and lots of tow around everywhere, — ’tis dan- 
gerous.” Looking keenly at Mr. Heywood he 
added : ** The air is as full of these doctrines now 
as it will be later of winged seeds, and every 
fresh wind of misery disseminates them broadcast 
into human hearts. Suffering and injustice have 
made fertile soil the world over for such seeds to 
take root in, and God is back of them as surely 
as He is back of nature. The harvest is only a 
question of time.” 

‘‘ Watered by human tears, what kind of a har- 
vest can we expect ” inquired Mrs. Howard. 

“Well, for my part,” muttered Mr. Heywood, 
“ instead of giving the masses more privileges I 
am in favor of curtailing what they’ve got. Take 
off the M and you’ve got their definition. The 
working classes don’t know their place any more. 
An ignorant, selfish, ungrateful lot. Hard times 
are good medicine for them, will do them good.” 

“ Who assigned them their place in the world ” 
asked John. “ Have the rich any more right to do 
so than the poor themselves } and who gave them 
the right } ” 

“ Custom gives it,” retorted Heywood. “There 


266 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


always has been, always will be upper and lower 
classes. Providence, I might say, arranged it so ; 
religion teaches it.” 

“Yes, as Providence was supposed to have 
arranged slavery,” replied John, quietly. “Minis- 
ters taught that doctrine from the pulpit once, but 
religion never taught it. As soon as enlighten- 
ment and a God-raised Abraham Lincoln came the 
slave power was destroyed, looked upon as a dis- 
grace to civilization. It was a man-made device, 
inspired by the very devil in the interest of capi- 
talists. Some of these days greater enlightenment 
and another Abraham Lincoln will come along 
and free the white slaves from this greater man- 
made curse, — the money power, and its heathen 
outcropping, — class distinctions. I tell you,” con- 
tinued John, “we’re on the edge of a radical 
change, or the signs of the times are no true 
prophets.” 

“What signs are there ?” inquired Mrs. 
Howard. 

“ There’s a fever of discontent in the very air 
we breathe; it’s epidemic. Men catch it from 
each other as children do measles and hooping- 
cough. The poor are growing poorer and the 
rich richer ; the gulf’s widening instead of nar- 
rowing between them. Look at the tene- 
ments and hovels of all the large cities where 
human beings are huddled together like wild ani- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


267 


mals in cages, and then look, not alone at the 
homes of their rich brothers, but at their stables, 
their kennels, where they keep their horses, their 
dogs. Yet these men are brothers having the 
same Almighty Father and the same immortal 
destiny, the same capacity for happiness or misery, 
the same cravings, gnawing like hunger for more 
than bread, at their hearts.” 

‘ Man shall not live by bread alone ’ may have 
had a prophetic as well as a spiritual meaning,” 
murmured McLean. 

“The masses are beginning to take notice of 
such things and reason upon them,” John contin- 
ued, “ They’re thinking, and after awhile thought 
will turn into action. We haven’t the silent, pa- 
tient poor of the past to deal with nowadays.’* 

“ V/hat do you suppose they’ll do about it } ” 
asked Heywood, sarcastically. “Try another rev- 
olution ? ” 

“ God forbid,” said John., “ In this country as yet 
there would be no excuse for that. The only weapon 
to fight wrongs in free America is the ballot.” 

“ Much good that will do,” sneered Heywood. 
“Every man has his price, and capital will always 
control legislation no matter how votes go. Leg- 
islatures we all know have been bought, and will 
be again. I have heard a man boast in this very 
canon that he carried the votes of the county in 
his vest pocket.” 


268 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


don’t believe that,” responded John with 
unusual warmth. “ There are men in this world 
you cannot buy, — no sir, not at any price.” 

‘‘Not among demagogues any way,” was the an- 
swer, “and those are the ones the masses trust 
and follow with the blindness of sheep.” 

“Well,” said John good-naturedly, “as Lincoln 
said, ‘You can fool all the people some of the 
time, and some of the people all of the time, 
but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’ 
If their leaders are bought and their interests be- 
trayed the masses collectively will waken up to 
that knowledge after awhile, and it may be dan- 
gerous to fool with them. The experiment will be 
made once too often. Avalanches move slowly, 
but when they do move you’ve got to clear the 
track or take the consequences.” 

“ There’s not enough unity among the laboring 
classes for them to accomplish anything, they’re 
too ignorant,” said Heywood. 

“Do you remember what Curran said of the 
fleas in a place where he once spent the night in 
Ireland.^” asked John. “If they had only been 
unanimous they could have turned him out of bed. 
Bye and bye the people will get unanimous, and 
the more stupid they are the more likely they’ll be 
to turn everything upside down, right things as 
well as wrong. The only wise policy is to 
enlighten their ignorance, deal justly by them, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


269 


and give them practical illustrations of the golden 
rule in legislation and business. Make people 
happy and they’ll not be dangerous. They’ll 
think safely then.” 

‘‘ Who cares what a man thinks ? ” inquired Hey- 
wood ; I don’t.” 

As a man thinks in his heart, so is he and so 
does he,” answered John. ^‘There’s the rub.” 

“ It never occurs to me to think or care whether 
other people are happy or not,” Mr. Heywood 
acknowledged, frankly. “Takes all my time to 
look after No. i, without bothering my head 
about other folks. I thoroughly believe in the 
doctrine of the survival and standing of the 
fittest.” 

' “Devil take the hindmost, I suppose,” laughed 
John. 

“Why, yes, if they ain’t smart enough to get 
out of his way.” 

“I don’t believe Mr. Heywood feels half as bit- 
terly as he expresses himself,” interrupted Mary, 
her kind, charitable soul shining out of her 
eyes. 

“Yes I do,” he responded. “I’m not fond of 
humanity. Whenever I can substitute machinery 
for men, I do it. Machinery won’t go off and 
leave you in the lurch, does its work and never 
grumbles.” 

“There’s one thing sure,” interrupted John, 


270 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“no man or woman has any cause for complaint 
in this State. The spirit of democracy exists to a 
marked degree in Colorado, and a poor man has as 
good a show as natural circumstances will permit. 
He is never looked down on because of his poverty 
and made to feel it’s a disgrace.” 

“As a rule,” said Hugh, “clashes between 
labor and capital are unknown in this canon. 
There are no union men in this camp to stir up 
mischief.” 

“The forces men have to contend with here are 
the inevitable forces of nature and circumstances, 
are not man-made, that’s why they’re less trouble,” 
John said. “ On the whole this is the kindest- 
hearted State I ever lived in. The equality be- 
tween man and man in these mountains is 
great.” 

“Well, for my part,” said Mr. Heywood, “I 
like classes, — don’t want equality of conditions. 
Everything in this life goes by comparison, and I 
enjoy being better off than my neighbors ; 
wouldn’t enjoy lots of things half so much if 
everybody had them. My wife feels just as I do, 
— takes no end of comfort in a sable jacket or 
some wrap or other, because it can never be com- 
mon. The more a thing costs the better she likes 
it. Now be honest, Mrs. Howard, wouldn’t you 
feel just that way ? ” 

“ I never have been given the opportunity, Mr. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Tuesday morning, the twenty-seventh day of 
June, gleamed brightly over the eastern hills. 
Like a beautiful thought fresh from heaven, God 
sent, it came with its message of love and hope to 
the dwellers in the canon. From a peak back of 
my cabin I watched its coming. First a spear of 
light gleaming behind a clump of firs, then a scat- 
tered army of glittering conquerors, the golden 
sunbeams stole stealthily downward, taking pos- 
session peak after peak of the rocky fastnesses. 
Suddenly a burst of sunshine overleaping the im- 
prisoning walls, and the whole valley was filled 
with the light and movement of a bannered host, 
the air with the ring of martial music, so glad, 
so triumphant was the effect. No shadow rested 
on nature’s pageant or on the many hearts who 
rejoiced in its beauty. The gladness of living 
was everywhere present, from the chirping cricket 
in the rocks to the whistling miner going to work, 
and the singing housewife at home. Swiftly the 
procession of sunny hours went past. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


271 


Heywood,” said Mary, smiling, “but if I know 
my own feelings at all I think I would not. 
The fact that my neighbors couldn’t have certain 
things would make me enjoy them less, not 
more.” Very gently she added, “don’t you 
think such feelings are belittling, unworthy of 
our better natures } ” 

Very keenly did Mr. Heywood’s eyes scan the 
open, truthful face, but the noble nature was back 
of the words and I could see he realized it. 
Rising to his feet he held out his hand, a 
kinder look than usual softening the hard, 
worldly face. “Good-bye, Mrs. Howard, I be- 
lieve you, — you’re a good, true-hearted woman ; 
if there were more like you in the world we’d be 
better men. Come and see us, all of you, the 
latch string will be out.” 

That same evening after supper Hugh McLean 
returned home. His visit had been short, yet his 
departure was a felt loss out of our lives, and the 
memory of his cheery philosophy and his child- 
like faith lingered long with us, if, indeed, as an 
influence it ever left. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


273 


News of the closing of the Indian mints to the 
coinage of silver, and its sudden fall, had been 
flashed along the wires from the far East, and 
along the nerves of human intelligence in this 
distant canon reason was busy flashing the far- 
reaching significance and dark possibilities of the 
act. 

That day I had occasion to ride down the canon 
ten or twelve miles on business, and on my way 
home passed long processions of miners returning 
from work. Bad news travels fast, and already 
the telegram and its probable consequences were 
on every lip. Each face wore an anxious, troubled 
look, and a nameless foreboding of still further 
disaster filled each heart. This was the begin- 
ning, — the end who could foresee ? One of the 
blizzards of life was upon us, we were but enter- 
ing into the storm on the outskirts of its fury. 
God alone could tell what the outcome might be. 
To these miners trudging down from countless 
holes in every mountain side all through the 
mining regions, this injury to silver was a serious 
affair. The preservation of their homes, their 
happiness and comfort, almost their very exist- 
ence was involved. No wonder that the usual 
joking banter was absent, and that singly or in 
groups silent, preoccupied men trudged wearily 
homeward. 

As I rode through the streets of Hopetown the 


274 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


same change was visible. At the corner where 
the road turns to go up the hill, a knot of excited 
men were discussing the situation. 

** Hallo, Phil,” shouted one as I passed, ‘‘heard 
the news ? ” 

“Yes,” I answered, “ heard it this noon; out- 
look’s pretty blue.” 

“ You bet your boots,” said another, “looks as 
if we’d have to hoof it out pretty soon.” 

‘'Well,” exclaimed Jack Armstrong, ‘'walking’s 
good, and I’ve always got a tie pass.” 

“Easy enough for you to talk. Jack,” retorted 
Dan Miller, “ you’ve only yourself to look after, 
and you’re young, but I’ve got a wife and four 
young ones hanging on to me. I’m a poor man, but 
here at least I have a home of my own, and my 
credit’s good. To start out to look for work and 
find it in a new country is easier talked about 
than done.” 

“That’s so,” struck in Billy Thompson, “talk’s 
cheaper that vittles. All I’ve got on God’s earth 
is right here, and I’ve spent the best part of my 
life scratchin’ hard to get it. Pretty tough on a 
fellow at my time of life to have to walk out with 
just the clothes on his back an’ leave his savings- 
bank behind.” 

“Yap,” continued Miller, “but that’s what the 
most of us will come to if the mills should stop 
buying ore and the smelters shut down. I’m mis- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


275 


doubting, too, we haven’t touched bottom yet. 
Wait till we get to-morrow’s news.” 

‘'Great Scott, Dan” laughed Jack, “give us a 
rest. I’ve heard enough bad news this last hour 
to keep me from wantin’ to borrow any more.” 

“rmfoightin’ mad mesilf,” said Mike Clifford, 
a hot-headed Irishman. “ Somebody or some- 
thin’s hit me an’ I’d loike to shtrike back, but 
divil a man av yez will tell me who done it. If 
any av yez will plaze shtep on the tail av me coat 
I’d be greatly obleeged.” 

“ Oh, shut up Mike,” exclaimed Dan, irritably, 
‘‘this is no joking matter.” 

“ In my counthry,” responded Mike, “when we 
had to go through a graveyard we used to whistle 
to keep our courage up, an’ to my way av thinkin’ 
you’d better laugh or foight over a thing any day 
than cry over it. A merry face an’ a bould heart’ll 
carry ye fu’ther on the road than the opposite.” 

“Your head’s level, Mike, that’s the tune for 
us,” responded several voices. 

“ Don’t let’s pack any more 'ome to-night than 
we ’ave to,” suggested Jack, “an’ w’atever ’ap- 
pens, boys, let’s stick together.” 

Although it was an off night and I knew they 
would not expect me, the temptation to spend 
the night at “ Rest-A-While ” was too strong to 
be resisted. On my way there I found myself 
wondering whether Mary had heard the disturbing 


276 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


news, and how it had affected her, dreading also 
the possibility of having to break it. Very vital 
results to her and hers might probably be bound 
up in this new and unlooked for development. 
The very thought of them made me sick at heart. 
Before entering the house, however, the question 
of her knowledge or ignorance seemed to answer 
itself. Just as I reached the gate, through the 
open front door came the sound of Marian’s voice 
and her mother’s blending in some exquisite bit of 
joyous harmony. Mingling as naturally with the 
evening air as the perfume of the mountain lilies 
and wild roses that bloomed in delicious nearness, 
it had the joyful abandonment of the soaring lark 
in its rich refrain. Entering unannounced, I fol- 
lowed the stream of melody to its source in the 
rear of the house. There in the kitchen I found 
the singers busy at work with the clatter of dishes 
for accompaniment, apparently as free from care 
as the lark whose song they rivalled. 

** Why, Philip Marston, where did you come 
from,” exclaimed Mrs. Howard, adding immedi- 
ately with the quick impulse of her hospitable 
nature, ‘'have you been to supper.?” 

“ Which question shall I answer first .? ” I asked 
smiling. 

“The one about supper, please.” 

“ I have not had supper,” I replied, “ thought I 
would be in time to join you. Am sorry now I 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


277 


didn’t stay down town and go to the hotel. If 
you’ll allow me I’ll go yet and not bother you." 

“ The idea of your making such a speech to me, 
Philip. If I thought you meant it I should be 
really offended," Mrs. Howard said. ** It’s a poor 
compliment to my hospitality. You know, or 
ought to know by this time, that it’s never any 
trouble to wait on a friend." 

**I do know it, Mary, I spoke without think- 
ing ; excuse me." 

On condition that you never repeat the offence, 
I will," she replied, “ but remember if it was 1 1 
o’clock instead of 7, I should feel hurt if you ever 
passed my door to go elsewhere for supper. The 
greatest compliment a friend can pay me is to let 
me be of service to him." 

*‘A 11 right," I answered laughing, “if I ever 
have to coal up at any unearthly hour, I shall re- 
member the Howard restaurant is open night and 
day." 

“ How you startled us to-night," said Marian ; 
“ we did not hear you till you were right in the 
room. You must have come in like a velvet- 
footed cat." 

“Not at all," I rejoined, banteringly, “but you 
two ladies were carried so far away on the wings 
of song, r.nd the orchestra of dishes seemed to be 
working itself up to such a climax, that ordinary 
sounds were swallowed up." 


278 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*‘No wonder,” laughed Marian; ** mamma had 
kept piling dishes one on top of another so reck- 
lessly, that the climax had passed the danger 
point so there was a crash.” 

“ Now honey,” interrupted her mother, *‘you set 
the table ; supper will be ready in a few minutes, 
Philip.” 

‘*Can I sit here in the kitchen and talk.?” I 
asked, meekly. 

“ Oh, certainly ; if you don’t mind the heat of 
the stove we’ll be glad to have you.” 

Through the open kitchen door came the slum- 
berous sound of the evening cradle song, nature’s 
lullaby crooned softly over her tired children. 
The continuous gurgle of water near by, the rustle 
of leaves, at intervals the weird hoot of the owl, 
farther off the boom of the fall, and still farther 
away the steady roar of the cataract of swollen 
water in the creek, all blended in a solemn psalm. 

^‘Have you seen John to-day?” asked Mrs. 
Howard. 

‘‘No, I have not ; haven’t been anywhere in his 
neighborhood.” 

“ Do you suppose he has heard the news about 
the Indian mints and the fall of silver ? ” she 
continued. 

“ I don’t know, am surprised to learn that you 
know anything about it. I didn’t think you 
did.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


279 


Why ? ” she inquired. 

*‘You take the news so coolly — seem just as 
happy as usual.” 

For an instant a pained look flitted across the 
serene face, but she only said quietly, “ worrying 
wouldn’t do any good would it ? ” 

She doesn’t dream of the possible consequences, 
I thought, and where ignorance is bliss it would 
be cruelty to enlighten. Let her dream on a 
little longer. I was the dreamer, the surface 
reader. I did not comprehend the fine uncon- 
querable strength hid in that frail, slight woman, 
nor the heroic stuff of which she was made. I 
had never known her, and but for circumstances 
never would have known her latent force of 
character. Marian’s entrance from the dining- 
room interrupted further conversation on the 
subject, as apparently Mrs. Howard wished to 
avoid it. Not until we were alone did she refer 
to it again. Later on as we sat in the parlor, 
after Marian and Harry had gone to bed, Mrs. 
Howard said simply : When do you suppose the 
parties in St. Louis will telegraph John 

didn’t know he expected any more tele- 
grams,” I answered. ‘‘They were coming on 
this week to take possession of the mine, I 
thought.” 

“They’ll not come now, though,” she said. 
“The news of to-day will break up the sale.” 


2S0 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


** How do you know ? ” I asked, surprised at the 
tone of conviction with which she spoke. 

** By instinct. A woman’s instinct will outrun 
a man’s reasoning any day if she hasn’t tampered 
with it, besides women feel coming changes as a 
barometer does.” 

The room was in twilight, but the light from the 
hall lamp fell on Mary’s face. It was very pale 
and sadder than I had ever seen it. Her evident 
trouble over this matter was a genuine surprise. 
It was unlike her. She was so unworldly always, 
and seemed to live so far above the reach of tem- 
poral disturbances, that I was mystified, and, to 
tell the truth) somewhat disappointed. An hour 
before I had almost resented her light-heartedness 
in view of surrounding conditions, now her depres- 
sion seemed equally strange. Such is the con- 
sistency of man. 

Well, I thought, after all we are very much 
alike, even ideal human nature is affected by the 
same causes, sensitive to the same heat and cold. 
Again did I do that noble, reticent nature 
injustice. 

“ Did it affect only myself,” she continued, “ the 
sale or loss of sale would seem comparatively a 
small matter. I certainly should never feel as I 
do, no matter what the outcome was,” 

“ It’s not necessary to make any explanation to 
me, Mary,” I said. “It’s very natural. I’m sure. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


281 


that you should feel anxious. I cannot imagine 
anything more disappointing than to have any- 
thing happen now to break up this sale.” 

“You misunderstand me, Philip, it’s not the 
loss of the sale that grieves me, although that is 
much, but the thought of its possible effect on 
John. I don’t know how he will stand it. My 
poor boy.” The unutterable pathos of those two 
words was alike a prayer and a caress. They 
seemed more like the overflow of a tender 
mother’s heart to a hurt child than the out- 
going love of a wife to her husband. 

“John has always borne reverses with marvel- 
ous patience,” I ventured to suggest, “and I’m 
satisfied he’ll bear this in the same way.” 

“I’m sure he will,” she replied, “that’s just it. 
You’ll never hear a murmur from his lips. He’ll 
be hurt, oh, so deeply, but the wound will bleed 
inwardly. John has been working for this result, 
remember, Philip, ull our married life, and just at 
the very moment when the hopes and efforts of 
long years were about to succeed, to have them 
fail so utterly seems almost too hard for a loving, 
human heart to bear. If John were not so 
unselfish this wouldn’t hurt half so much, but 
his great loving heart has been so full of plans for 
others that I dread the effect on himself.” 

“ I think, Mary, your tender sympathy and 
perhaps imagination, lead you to exagger- 


282 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


ate the effect. I know him so well that — ” 

“Ah, yes,” she interrupted with passionate 
vehemence, “but you don’t know him as I do, 
don’t understand the fineness, the delicacy as well 
as the strength of his nature. But this won’t do,” 
she added. “ I must be brave and cheerful, must 
be wings for John, and if possible bear him over 
this stony place. He is stronger far than I am, I 
have always leaned on him, but sometimes in life 
we have to change places, the weak have to help 
the strong.” 

The next morning I returned to the mine, and 
for a couple of days heard nothing of outside mat- 
ters. The end of the month was always a busy 
time and kept me fully occupied. Friday after- 
noon, however, there came by telephone fresh 
news of the outside world, news ‘as startling as the 
closing of the Indian mints, and in its immediate 
effects far more distressing. The leading bank of 
Hopetown had closed its doors. It seemed hardly 
credible. For many years this bank had stood to 
the miners a very embodiment of sound business 
principles and strength, one of the corner-stones 
almost of the county. We had come to believe in 
its stability as we believed in the immovable mount- 
ains, and its collapse was not only a financial but 
a personal loss, a shock to the moral sense of the 
community. Yet the explanation of its failure was 
simple ; it was only an effect. Tuesday’s news 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


283 


pondered over, reasoned out, had produced Friday’s 
Calamity. It was the natural, perhaps inevitable 
outcome of great underlying causes existing in a 
distant land and beyond local control. With 
a heart full of vague unrest I started for Hope- 
town. At the front door of *‘Rest-A-While” stood 
Mrs. Howard, apparently watching for some one. 
Her face was serene as the cloudless sky above, 
and a singularly sweet expression seemed to shine 
from some spirit-fed source within. Her eyes 
made me think of Tennyson’s beautiful words, 
‘‘homes of silent prayer.” 

“ Good-morning, Philip ; I was out looking for 
John. Have you seen him since you were here .? ” 

“ No I have not. l am surprised he hasn’t been 
down. I’ve been awfully busy or I would have 
hunted him up.” 

“ It’s all right, I know,” she answered, “ but I 
have wanted to see him so badly that the time 
seemed long. Did you hear about the bank ” 

“Yes, that’s what brought me down.” I knew 
John had some money deposited in one of the 
banks, and I wanted, yet dreaded, to ask which 
one. Mary’s next words answered the unspoken 
question. 

“ I suppose you know our money, what little we 
have, is in that bank ? ” 

' “No, I didn’t know where it was,” I said ; “ I’m 
awfully sorry.” 


284 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Can you come in for a little ? she asked. 

“ Yes, certainly. There’s nothing to be gained 
by hurrying down town now. The bank’s closed. 
A little later will do just as well.” 

She led the way into the cool, shaded parlor, 
fragrant as usual with the scent of flowers and of 
memories sweeter still. As we sat there talking 
the sound of a footstep on the board walk outside 
reached our ears. 

“Hark,” said Mrs. Howard, “that’s John’s 
step, but how tired it sounds.” To loving, sen- 
sitive ears even the feet of the dear ones have a 
speech of their own, and a footfall may be full of 
the music of life or the reverse. Rising she 
hurried to the door, but before she could reach it 
he had entered. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Only one who knew John Howard well could 
have detected any change. The strong face had 
the same look of patient endurance, of self-control, 
and the kindness in it was as marked as ever ; but 
something had died out of the expression. The 
sunny eyes had a shadow in them, the lines of 
care were deeper, he looked haggard and worn, 
ay, and years older. Mary did not speak, only 
held out both her hands in loving welcome. He 
took them both in his and held them for a moment, 
looking down into her eyes as he stood. Words 
were not needed. They understood without them. 

“It’s all right, dear,” she said brightly, “don’t 
take it to heart and we’ll get over this as we have 
our other troubles.” John looked earnestly at the 
brave face upturned to his, aglow with self -forget- 
ting devotion. A mist filled the kind true eyes, 
he bent, kissed her full on the lips, and turned 
suddenly away. As he did so he saw me. 

“ Hallo, Phil, you here } When did you come 
down ? ” 

“Only just came,” I answered. 

285 


286 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


“ I suppose you came down to see about the 
bank,” he said. 

“No, am just on my way there.” 

“ Hold on for a few minutes,” he said, “ and Til 
go with you.” 

Listlessly he sat down like a man out of whom 
the spring had gone. His eyes glanced mechan- 
ically out of the open window, but their expression 
was blank and unseeing. After a moment’s 
pause he said : “Well, the sale’s fallen through.” 

“When did you hear, and what ” I asked. 

“Yesterday afternoon the telegram came. 
They’re afraid to take hold of silver mines under 
present conditions. I don’t blame them.” 

“ Present conditions aren’t going to last for- 
ever,” Mrs. Howard said, cheerfully. “They’ll 
maybe want them bye and bye, or something 
else will turn up.” 

“Maybe so,” acquiesced John, but his voice 
lacked its usual ring. 

Bye and bye’s golden harvests cannot always 
atone for a hungry present. Empty ears of prom- 
ise may be gathered once too often to keep hope 
alive. 

“This bank failure,” he continued, “is going to 
be a more serious misfortune in the immediate 
present than the closing of the Indian mints ; that 
is, this neighborhood will feel it more.” 

“ It seems strange both troubles should have 


THE STORY OE A CANON. 


287 


come on us in one week,” said Mrs. Howard. 

Nothing strange about that,” explained her 
husband. '‘The two are related, one is the off- 
spring of the other. The first produced the last.” 

“It isn’t the last it will produce, either,” I 
remarked. “ The crop of evils springing from 
that same source will overrun the whole country- 
before many weeks, if I’m not much mistaken.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid they will,” responded John. 
“ The whole commercial world from India to the 
Rocky Mountains is reeling now from the effects 
of that action, and many a bank and business 
house will topple over before equilibrium is 
restored. It’s bound to paralyze business and 
produce no end of suffering. How do the 
‘boys’ feel about it.?” he added, looking at me. 
“ I haven’t seen anybody since it happened.” 

. “ Pretty blue,” I answered. 

“You bet,” said John, “it’s a pretty blue out- 
look for this camp, and you don’t have to look 
through blue glasses either. Imagination has a 
great deal to do in producing and prolonging 
financial panics as a usual thing, in exaggerating 
future dangers, but no imagination is needed in 
this instance to magnify. Stern reality is 
enough.” Turning to his wife he added : “ This 
bank failure is a pretty bad business for us, Mary. 
I don’t know what we’re going to do.” 

“ I don’t either,” replied his wife calmly, “but I 


288 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


do know it’s all right. We’ll be taken care of. 
God’s bank isn’t closed, nor have His promises 
lost their value.” 

*‘I am glad you feel that way,” said John, *‘wish 
I could, but there’s no use talking, I don’t. Well, 
let’s walk down town, Phil, and see what’s going 
on. 

Could any words ever outline that “ going-on ” 
so a stranger could grasp its full significance and 
feel the underswell of suppressed misery ? Could 
any pen picture ever make that valley throb with 
the intense life and misery which it showed to us 
that forenoon ? I think not. As well try from 
some safe nook in the sheltered rocks to realize 
the feelings of a shipwrecked crew struggling in 
the wild waves, as the feelings of those storm- 
tossed men on life’s rough sea. Only through liv- 
ing contact could one know and enter into the^ 
feelings of others. Everywhere men’s hearts 
were failing them for fear, and a reign of terror 
had begun. We had known that the bank was 
closed, but not until we came down town did we 
realize it. The large doors still shut and cur- 
tained, the plate-glass windows still shaded, the 
ominous placards pasted here and there were 
more convincing than many words. There as of old 
stood the building in which we had all felt a cer- 
tain pride, the body still reared its massive front, 
but somehow the spirit had departed. Groups of 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


289 


excited talkers blocked the sidewalk in front of 
the bank. On each side the curb-stones were 
lined with men sitting in all positions, each attitude 
telling with dumb pathos of heart-sick despera- 
tion. Many a big stalwart miner sat with both 
elbows resting on his knees, supporting and 
partially covering his face between his great 
horny hands. The future looked dark to him, 
and he was thinking it all out with that quiet, slow 
brain of his, trying perhaps with his mind’s eye to 
pierce that future so heavily shrouded. The ques- 
tion on every heart was : ** What next .? What 
of the coming days ? ” Out of space a hand 
had suddenly reached down and laid its restrain- 
ing fingers on every wheel of industry in the 
camp. Business was at a stand-still. The mills 
had stopped buying ore and work had lost its 
motive. 

‘'Ain’t this a terror, Phil,” exclaimed John, 
glancing around. “ For God’s sake don’t mention 
my sale falling through. There's enough misery 
without adding to it.” 

Opposite the bank on the shady side of the 
street stood a group of miners talking. A 
strange apathy seemed to possess these restless, 
aggressive men. Most of them acted as if stunned 
by a heavy blow. As we approached, Dick 
Spense, irrepressible as ever, called out grimly : 
“ How’s this for a surprise party 


290 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“ The surprise is all right, I guess,” answered 
John, “if the party is,” 

“ Gee whiz ! but the bottom has fell out this 
time,” Dick went on, “ an’ no mistake. I’ve been 
tellin’ my wife for a year' past I needed a tonic. 
Reckon I got one now. I tell you what, boys 
we’ll have to brace up.” 

“ I’d like to know what in thunder we’re going 
to do,” queried Dan Miller. 

“ I’m going to make tracks for some other hunt- 
in’ ground,” Jack Armstrong replied. “Got to.” 

“Well I ain’t goin’ to just yet,” Dick Spense 
said defiantly. “ I ain’t one o’ them Arab fellers 
that can strike their tent in a night an’ git. By 
George, my pegs are too deep ; besides, where can 
we go ? ” 

“ What’s the matter with tryin’ some big city 
for a change,” suggested Jack, “ say Chicago ? 
There must be lots goin’ on there this summer, 
lots of work. Charlie Hey wood says that’s what 
he’s goin’ to do.” 

“Charlie Heywood,” snorted Dick, contemptu- 
ously. “ If you ain’t a tender foot. Do you think 
you an’ him would run on the same track back 
East ? ” 

Jack flushed angrily. “We’ve done it here for 
many a year. We went to the same school, played 
in the same base ball-team, and chummed together 
since we were boys. If he should invite me to 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


291 


his house in Chicago it would be an even thing. 
He’s bunked with me many a time.” 

“Ya’, but he won’t never do it again,” Dick said, 
not unkindly. “If you’re countin’ on anything 
like that, Jack, ye’ll get left. Old Heywood’s a 
high-flyer an’ so’s his son. The old man told me 
t’other day that he meant to buy a swell place in 
some swell street in Chicago an’ get in the swim. 
Them wan’t the words he used, but that was 
what he meant all right. He got off some high 
fallutin’ stuff about buyin’ in a fine location 
where his family would have the advantage of 
good society, that’s with fellers with lots of money 
and so forth. I sized him up when he was speak- 
in’. I know him like a book. After he’s shet of 
the mountains he’s got no use for plain folk like 
you an’ me.” 

“ I don’t believe Charlie would go back on an 
old friend like that,” Jack said, doubtfully. 

“Oh you boys are like the girls,” retorted Dick, 
“you’re all in love with his handsome face and 
figure, and the wonderful contortions he can go 
through ; athletics you call it. He never was a 
friend to anybody but himself, nor his father be- 
fore him. I tell you if Charlie Hey wood should 
meet you in the street in Chicago he wouldn’t 
know ye, an’ if ye went to the house once ye’d be 
sorry.” 

Jack scowled. “By the eternal powers ! if 


292 


THE STORY OF A CAJ^ON. 


Charlie ever met me on the street an’ didn’t know 
me, I’d knock the stuffin’ out of him.” 

“An’ get put in one of them canvansaries where 
they cage humans like wild animals,” Spense 
said. “ Oh no, my boy, he wouldn’t be worth it. 
Anybody that would do a dogoned trick like that 
would be a low down cur and would deserve almost 
anything a man could give him, but the law 
wouldn’t look at it that way.” 

“I’ve been thinkin’ myself,” interrupted Will 
Burt, another young fellow about the age of 
Charlie and Jack, “that it would be a good idea 
to try my luck in a big city. There must bo piles 
of work there, and then it would be so lively. A 
fellow could have a good time after he was out of 
harness.” 

“Well, for my part,” Spense continued, “I’d 
like to stay where I’ve neighbors.” 

“Neighbors,” exclaimed Jack Armstrong in 
open-eyed astonishment, “ what -do ye mean ? 
wouldn’t ye have all the neighbors ye’d want in a 
big city ” 

“ I should say as much,” chorused Will. 

“Oh ye young babes in the wood,” answered 
Spense, “ye’ll be another couple of ‘Innocents 
Abroad,’ but ye won’t be long there ’fore ye’ll cut 
your wisdom teeth, an’ it’ll hurt like the mischief 
to cut ’em, by Jimminy ! Because ye’d have 
humans around ye as close as sardines in a box. 


293 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 

did ye think ye’d have neighbors ? I tell ye Molly 
an’ me has lived on a prairie farm where the 
nearest house was a mile away, an’ in cabins 
where the nearest settlement was further than 
that, but they were a good deal nearer than 
the folks livin’ all round us when we did live in a 
big city.” 

“Well,” Jack said, “I’ve kind o’ got headed 
that way an’ I guess we’ll have to go it. What 
do you say. Will } ” 

“ That’s my ticket,” was the response. 

“ Chicago or bust, eh } ” retorted Spense, with a 
grim smile. “Ye’ll do as ye damn please about 
it, I suppose, but when ye git in the middle of 
them wildernesses o’ stone an’ lime, maybe ye’ll 
wish ye hadn’t. I’ve been there.” 

“Main trouble now,” John said, “will be to 
raise money enough to go anywhere. This bank 
failure just at this time is hard on us all.” 

Just then from across the street Mike Clifford 
sung out : “ Got any interest in this shebang, Mr. 
Howard ^ ” 

“ Yes, a little, Mike, have you ” 

“ Me ? Nary a red cent. I spend my money 
as I goes and to-day I’m better off than any av 
yel I’ve got the good of all I’ve worked fer, an’ 
that’s more nor ye can say.” It did seem so. 
Improvidence apparently was the better wisdom. 

“ They say the stores are going to shut down 


294 


THE STORY OF A CA/^ON. 


on credit,” Dan Miller broke in excitedly. 
“ What’ll become of us then } ” 

“They haven’t done it yet,” said John quietly, 
“and maybe they won’t do it,” but he looked 
troubled. 

“I could stand it for myself,” continued Dan, 
“could rustle some way for a bite or starve, but I 
couldn’t stand it for my wife and children. If 
they should get hungry and I couldn’t give them 
bread, it would make a devil of me. I’d stick at 
nothing.” Keen hard eyes unused to tears grew 
dim at the words, and many a brawny throat 
worked with uncontrollable emotion. 

“ That’s a kind of a shot that goes home and 
brings a fellow to his knees,” muttered Tom Wil- 
liams, a powerful Welchman with a heart as big 
as an ox and as tender as a baby’s. 

“This sort of experience kept up long enough,” 
Dan went on excitedly, “is what makes anarchists. 
When a man is willing to work and can’t get work, 
the injustice of it raises hell inside.” 

“ Keep your shirt on, Dan,” said John sooth- 
ingly. “ I know it’s pretty rough, but hard words 
won’t mend matters. There aint anybody going 
to suffer yet awhile. We’ll all see to that.” 

“I don’t feel as if we’d been fairly treated,” 
said Sam Banks, one of the old soldiers of the 
place, “ that’s what cuts deepest. After the war 
we came West to them mining states because 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


295 


they wus silver states, and because the govern- 
ment and President Lincoln had made certain 
promises. That’s why we came. We exiled our- 
selves to a very hell of a place, dug and burrowed 
like gophers in them blasted rocks to get a start. 
All the capital we had — time, strength, money — 
we invested right in them canons an’ thought we 
had a dead sure thing.” 

** You bet,” chorused several voices. 

“ Now look a!t us ! We’ve got our homes, our 
property here all right, but what are they worth } 
You couldn’t give a silver mine away. Every- 
thing’s just naturally collapsed, shrunk like a 
child’s bubble, and nothing has any value. We’re 
middle-aged paupers, and yet for a quarter of a 
century we’ve grubbed in them holes till we don’t 
know nothin’ else.” 

Ay, an’ the hardest of all is,” exclaimed Dan 
Miller, ''our poverty doesn’t come from natural 
causes, from shiftlessness, but from legisla- 
tion made in the interests of those who already 
have more money that they need, an’ the legisla- 
tion’s made at the say-so of England ! The whole 
country needs what we’ve got, but to boost the 
rich folk higher, double the value of their gold, 
our silver is made of no account. I feel as if 
we’d been robbed simply because we were not 
strong enough to help it, but might ain’t right 
by a long shot.” 


296 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“Well, boys,” said John, in that quiet, reason- 
able way of his, “ don’t air your wrongs any more. 
It only magnifies them and maddens you ; don’t 
do any good. Congress will surely come to the 
relief before long and something will be done ; 
let’s wait.” 

This sentiment struck the right chord. These 
simple-hearted miners as a class were loyal at 
heart. Their faith in the government’s willing- 
ness to help them in their hour of need, and to do 
justly by them, was unbounded. The sincerest 
patriotism animated every man of them. If in the 
future anything occurred to kill that feeling, the 
fault would be the 'government’s, not theirs. A 
favored Joseph works mischief in the best regu- 
lated families, and hatred rushes in where only 
love should dwell. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Saturday night, the red letter night of all the 
week for miners came around once more, but we 
hardly felt the coming. All the nights were 
Saturday nights now, in the sense of there being 
no working Monday, though their old-time 
meaning was dulled, their happy brightness faded. 
Even the blessed family reunions had lost their 
homely joy. Over all the days brooded the chill 
mist of uncertainty, and no lamp of prophetic 
surmise could brighten the gloom. Measured by 
feelings, weeks, not days had passed since last 
Saturday when Mr. McLean had been with us, 
and merry-hearted John had been the life of the 
table. Just as patient, just as kind he sat among 
us to-night, but something was lacking. The 
week’s experience, like a heavy wheel, had gone 
over and crushed the very life out of even his 
buoyant nature. A glance at the care-worn face 
showed time’s wrinkles all too plainly, and just as 
evident were the cruel furrows made in that gen- 
tle heart by Disappointment’s plowshare. Never 
again would he say “age had no existence for 

297 


298 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


him.” Hard indeed was it to keep a brave out- 
ward show under such circumstances, but a very 
Gibraltar was Mrs. Howard’s persistent cheeri- 
ness ; her unwavering trust indeed was uplifting 
wings. 

Supper over John started outdoors. 

‘‘Come out as soon as you can, mother,” he 
said, “we’ll be on the porch.” 

“Aren’t you going down town to-night.?” she 
asked with some surprise. This being the almost 
unbroken habit of years Saturday nights, its 
omission was significant. 

“No, I don’t care to go to-night,” he answered. 
“ It seems as if there had been a funeral at every 
house. Nothing seems natural, and somehow it 
uses me up to go down.” 

It was true. Our old world was sadly changed, 
the foundations of things were moving and the 
unhappy tide of humanity surged to and fro like 
the storm tossed ocean. Never since the stars 
looked down at Creation’s morning on the chaos of 
quivering rocks and seeming anarchy, had the lit- 
tle canon been so convulsed. Then it was the 
earth agonies of insensate Nature, now it was the 
human agonies of anxious hearts tossed hither and 
thither at the mercy of circumstances, and con- 
scious of their own helplessness. Was the catas- 
trophe, therefore, of greater or lesser moment .? 

For some time after going out we sat silent on 


THE STORY OF A CAm)N. 


299 


the porch. Outside of the great calamity of the 
week nothing seemed worth talking about, and 
that was still too much of a living worry, a per- 
sonal loss, to bear discussing. Except for the sil- 
ver question, even newspapers had lost interest. 
What to us was the outside world with its varied 
happenings, the onward march of civilization, even 
news of the all-absorbing World’s Fair We had 
neither part nor lot in the matter. The very 
name was an additional stab. Were we not all 
going there ? For the many was it not now an 
impossibility ? What in this life could ever atone 
for such a loss ? Starving natures, spirit-hungry, 
far and near, had expected to weave into their 
monotonous lives all the gorgeous sights and 
sounds, the suggestive thoughts of that marvelous 
conception, and to go in the strength of the mem- 
ory many days. The deprivation was all the 
harder because of the short dream of possession. 

“ I am awfully sorry about Marian,” John said 
at length, breaking the silence. 

‘‘‘ What about her } ” I inquired. 

“ I can’t let her go to the Fair,” was the reply. 
“ The child’s so bent on going it’ll almost break 
her heart to give it up. God knows it almost 
breaks mifie to ask her to.” 

“ Does she know it ^ ” I asked. 

“No,” he said huskily. “She don’t seem to 
realize how things are, and her mother hasn’t 


300 


THE STORY OF A CAJVON. 


had courage to tell her. I haven’t either. Under 
ordinary circumstances I could borrow enough to 
send her, but now everybody hangs on to a dollar 
as if it were a hundred, afraid to let one go for 
fear they’ll never get another to take its place.” 

Bending forward I laid my hand on his knee. 
“John,” I begged, “let me send her. She need 
never know where the money comes from.” 

The honest eyes looked squarely into mine, and 
back of them for an instant, like a beautiful face 
at a window, flashed the noble nature. Letting 
one hand fall on mine he said simply : “ Thanks 
Phil, thanks. If I would accept a favor of that 
kind from anybody on earth I would from you.” 

“ Will you accept it then ? ” I asked eagerly. 

“ No, Phil, I couldn’t.'’ Seeing my pained look, 
he added: “Don’t feel hurt, old fellow. Your 
offer has done me lots of good, but I couldn’t take 
the money.” 

“Why, John.?” 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, with that min- 
gled air of obstinacy and gentleness that ever 
characterized him. “ Simply can’t, that’s all ; 
ain’t built that way.” 

“Oh, John,” I pleaded, “as we’re on this sub- 
ject let me tell you something more. This panic 
hasn’t hurt me. I feel almost ashamed to be here 
with you all and go down among the boys know- 
ing how little it has affected me. I have always 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


301 


done business with the other bank, am not inter- 
ested in mines,. except as superintendent, nor in 
property here. It seems almost wrong to have 
got off Scott free as I have, while so many are 
bankrupt, not only in money but in feeling. Give 
me a chance to equalize things a little, won’t you } 
Let my purse be yours.” 

I am glad you’ve been so lucky, Philip,” he 
responded cordially, “very glad, but that fact 
don’t alter my feelings. I want to use no man’s 
purse but my own.” 

“ Can’t you look upon it as a loan ? ” I asked, 
“a temporary accommodation as business men 
say ” 

“ In ordinary circumstances I might,” he said, 
“but not as things are now. Property in this 
camp has lost its value. I don’t know when, if 
ever, I could repay you.” 

“ If you never repaid me you ought not to feel 
that way, John,” I retorted warmly. “ We’ve 
been more like brothers than friends for years.” 

“ Don’t get mad, Philip,” he said, with all the 
old-time patience. “ I’d borrow from you quicker 
than from any brother I’ve got. They’re all 
strangers to me now, and you’re nearer than any 
brother. We have to take brothers as they come, 
but we choose our friends. Not many have such 
a generous friend, either,” he added. 

“Why can’t you be equally generous.^” I 


302 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


asked. You know you’d do as much for me 
any day. Why can’t you take as well as give ? ” 
He threw back his head with an amused laugh. 
“ How you do hang on to this notion of yours ; 
must have a streak of the bull-dog about you.” 

I wish I could hang on long enough to make 
you give in,” was my reply. 

Can’t do that, old boy. There’s too much of 
the * critter ’ about myself. You forget I’m Scotch 
too.” 

“Well, excuse me saying just one thing more, 
John. Even if you have a right to refuse a friend’s 
help for yourself in time of need, do you think you 
have a right to refuse it for your family ? ” 

He flushed painfully. I had touched a tender 
spot. “See here, Philip,” he said, “let’s drop 
this. If my family are ever in want of the neces- 
saries of life I promise I’ll let you know. We 
haven’t got there yet, and I don’t think we ever 
shall. I don’t know how things are coming out, 
but I think they’ll be better bye and bye.” 

“You said if your family were ever in want of 
the necessaries of life, John, you’d let me know. 
Do you think that something to eat and anything 
to wear are all the necessaries of life a girl like 
Marian wants Don’t you know she is hungry 
for other and higher things, that her spirit craves 
food and change as much or more than her body 
does ? ” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


303 


“ Oh, my God, don't I know it, feel it, only too 
well ! ” he said bitterly, “ and not only she but her 
mother, although Mary would die before she 
would acknowledge it. That’s the sting of the * 
whole thing. Their desires are so pure, so reason- 
able, so worthy of gratification, that it almost kills 
me to think I can never gratify them. The re- 
membrance of their happy talks about what they 
expected to see this summer, their innocent delight 
at the prospect of getting away from the old drudg- 
ery for a little, is almost more than I can bear.” 

‘‘What a brute I am, John, to speak as I did. 
Forgive me, I ought to have known better.” 

“That’s all right, Phil. You didn’t think, I 
suppose.” After a pause he added meditatively : 
“For Marian’s sake perhaps I ought not to allow 
my feelings to stand in the way of her happiness. 
She is young, and such an opportunity might be a 
life-long benefit.” 

“You know,” I suggested, “she need never 
know where the money came from.” 

“ Oh yes, she’ll have to know that if she goes. 

I won’t sail under false colors. Let’s fix it this 
way. Mary will probably tell her to-morrow, and 
if you can persuade her to take the money from 
you I’ll let her go.” 

“And you won’t try to influence her against 
accepting ? ” 

“ No, I will not.” 


304 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Just then Mrs. Howard and Marian joined us. 

Well, little mother, got through at last } ” said 
John, looking up kindly. 

* Yes,” she answered cheerily, ^‘the children 
are bathed and bedded, and another week’s work 
rolled up and put away.” 

“ Oh, dear,” sighed Marian, I’m glad this day 
is done ; it’s been the longest day I ever knew.” 

“ Nothing remarkable in that, is there } ” asked 
her father dryly, the 22d of June is always the 
longest day in the year, and this is only the ist of 
July.” 

** I mean long in a different way, papa ; every- 
thing’s been so poky and everybody’s seemed so 
blue.” 

** I know what you mean, Marian,” her father 
answered, ‘‘ probably we’ve all felt the same way. 
The measuring stick has been in ourselves.” 

It has seemed a long day to me, too,” said 
Mrs. Howard, indeed the whole week has seemed 
long. For one thing the stillness has been so 
remarkable. There’s been a conscious want both 
about the sights and sounds. Usually we can hear 
the creak of the heavy wagons coming down the 
hill every little while, but lately there’s been no 
teaming, and you can’t imagine what a difference 
that makes.” 

“Oh yes I can,” responded her husband, “be- 
cause the absence of such sounds has a startling 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


305 


significance. It’s a constant reminder of present 
conditions.” 

“As a general thing,” continued Mrs. Howard, 
“there’s a string of ore wagons, jack trains, 
buggies, men on horseback passing up and down 
from early morning to six o’clock at night. The 
last three days it has been like a road leading to 
two graveyards, only, thank God, I haven’t seen 
any hearses.” 

“ The graveyards are there all right, Mary,” 
said John gloomily, “ and lots of dead hopes have 
been carted up and down that road since last 
Tuesday. People back East grow very merry and 
sarcastic over the silver lunatics of the West, call 
us daft and so forth. Is it any wonder we feel 
intense, even to bitterness, on this subject ^ 
Suppose suddenly, through legislation, the busi- 
ness thoroughfares of the large cities East were 
deserted, not a truck or business wagon to be seen 
or heard and the people didn’t know when there 
would be. If they made the wildest kind of up- 
roar would anybody wonder at such ‘ daftness,’ or 
consider them necessarily eligible for an insane 
asylum ? ” 

“Oh, no; in that case,” I answered, “it would 
be only another evidence of eastern superiority.” 

“ There are not as many of us here, it’s true,” 
he went on, “but our position — our feelings are 
just the same. We*re just as human, and just as 


306 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


deeply mterested in the question of bread and 
butter or the want of it, not to speak of the other 
trimmings of civilization.” 

“ The people of this canon may be few in num- 
ber,” I said, “as a drop in an ocean if you please, 
but they represent in condition and sentiment the 
people of a large section of country. They repre- 
sent an area of a million square miles. Their past 
or present history may not have much interest to 
the wealthy single standard classes East to-day, 
but their future history and well-being will be of 
vital moment to the descendants of even these. 
Those despised mining states and territories are 
going to be the reservoir for the overflow of the 
older states before long. In the interests of their 
own descendants, is it wise, is it kind to destroy 
the irrigating ditches of to-day, the silver channels 
along which the tide of civilization has been rapidly 
flowing, and turn that tide back for another century.? 
Under just laws these states would be a nursery 
for untold millions yet to come, a nursery where 
the children of these men would have room to 
grow and be happy.” 

“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Howard sadly, “if this 
state of things should keep on long there will be 
a good deal of suffering. You scarcely ever see 
or hear of a beggar in the mountains, but if 
times don’t change soon we won’t be able to 
say that long. They will brighten, though,” she 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


307 


added bravely. “ Somehow good will come out of 
it all.” 

“ I sincerely trust so,” answered John. The 
worst trouble is, nobody knows where to go to 
better himself. All branches of business every- 
where are at a stand-still. A fall in silver means 
a fall in Everything. It means less work and less 
wages. The stoppage of such a vast industry will 
throw an army of idle men on the world, and en- 
forced idleness is a prolific crime breeder. You 
talk about hardly ever seeing a beggar in the 
mountains ; I have hardly ever seen one anywhere 
else in Colorado, either, except men begging for 
work. They always got it somewhere, and the 
beggars became producers. The harmless, respect- 
able tramps of the past are likely to develop into 
somiething more dangerous, now, though.” 

** You don’t think our people would do anything 
really wicked or lawless, do you ? ” asked Mrs. 
Howard. I’ve too much faith in the miners for 
that.” 

Stretched at John’s feet like a veritable mountain 
lion lay Roland. At the sound of his name the 
great brute raised his head and looked up affection- 
ately into his master’s face. The ponderous jaws, 
his great size, above all the sombre, deep-set eye, 
blood shot in the corner and unfathomable in ex- 
pression, invariably secured for their owner respect 
and consideration. To strangers he was an un- 


308 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


known quantity of danger and a very visible 
quantity of power. Neither dog nor man ever 
presumed to trifle with him, yet to us he was a 
very embodiment of affectionate gentleness and 
loyalty. Laying his hand caressingly on the dog, 
John said: “You have perfect faith in Roland, 
Mary, haven’t you } Consider him a model of all 
canine virtues, a thoroughly respectable, benevo- 
lent dog } ” 

“Certainly,” was the surprised answer, “dear 
old Roland.” 

“ So do I. For all that, a day or two’s hunger 
would utterly demoralize him, change his disposi- 
tion, even his look, so you’d hardly know him. A 
few weeks’ prowling round, begging for food, per- 
haps dodging stones and curses, would transform 
him into a wolf. He would become a thief cer- 
tainly, probably kill somebody. There’s lots of 
the animal about all men. When they can’t get 
work and food, when words harder than stones 
whistle round their ears and they’re treated like 
a homeless dog, it brutalizes them.” 

“ Surely no one will ever be allowed in a country 
like this to suffer for want of the necessaries of 
life,” exclaimed Mrs. Howard. “That would be a 
libel on our civilization, not to speak of Christian- 
ity ; besides there’s too much charity in the world 
nowadays for that.” 

“That’s all right about your charity,” John said, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


309 


“ it has its place for those who need and want it, 
but some people are so constituted they can’t 
accept charity. I am one of those fellows myself, 
and there are thousands just like me all through 
the mountains. The highest virtue of the past 
was charity, it’s a great virtue still, always will be, 
but what the working people want to-day is not 
charity, but justice. Give them justice and they 
won’t need charity.” 

‘‘Well I suppose,” Mrs. Howard assented, “if 
we had more charity in its large sense of love, we 
would have less need for it in its restricted sense 
of alms-giving, because, of course, the greater 
would include the less. As Drummond says, 
‘we could not be unjust to our brother if we 
loved him.’” 

“We don’t love him then,” John said. “Men 
have grown rich, are growing rich now through 
injustice, through legalized robbery of the masses 
and taking advantage of other men’s and women’s 
necessities. All over the land employers have 
been allowed to cut down wages to starvation 
point, while they themselves have not taken the 
first reef in their wide-spreading sails. They 
have revelled in the superfluities of life while 
their brothers and sisters have been crushed in 
the wine-press of cruel necessity, almost out of 
the semblance of humanity. Look at the sweat- 
ing system that is permitted in every large city and 


310 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


business concern, a kind of slow torture that kills 
human beings by inches. The very foundations 
of fortunes everywhere are laid on the wrongs of 
others, on advantage taken of their fellow-creatures 
in their hour of desperate need. No wonder the 
walls of a social system resting on such moving, 
writhing foundations crack and threaten to fall. 
I tell you,” he went on earnestly, the rack and 
other instruments of torture used in the Middle 
Ages for extortion are hung away as curiosities 
and looked upon as fiendish relics of barbarism, 
but the spirit that used them isn’t hung away by 
any means. The agony is applied in a different 
way, that’s all, and out of man’s and woman’s 
helplessness, out of their crying needs, are wrung 
compliance to the demands of a power mightier 
than themselves. The pinched, whitening faces 
of wife and children, the fear of overdue rent and 
being turned out in the street, are good modern 
substitutes for the rack of long ago. An extra 
twist or two on the thumb-screw of his necessi- 
ties, and the victim of to-day is ready for still fur- 
ther reduction of his wage, especially when you 
put the thumb-screw on his babies is this true.” 

“The Front de Boeufs and Inquisitors of Spanish 
torture chambers are not an extinct race then, 
you think,” I said. 

“Not by any means,” he answered. “Living 
embodiments of their nature walk the civilized 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


311 


world to-day, and society opens wide its doors to 
these moral monsters. How a man makes his 
money is not the question, but has he made it ? 
If every dollar represented a human life and he 
made ten millions, the civilization of to-day would 
honor such a man.” 

It must be a very poor civilization, surely, that 
has such a standard,” Mrs. Howard said. 

‘‘Well, it’s the civilization of the nineteenth 
century,” her husband answered, “and its stand- 
ard. At home the standard of admittance to a 
certain crack regiment is six feet and one inch ; 
the standard of admittance to the crack regiment 
of the upper ten is so many thousands or millions. 
A noble standard truly ! ” 

“ Do you think a civilization like that can 
endure } ” I asked. 

“I do not,” he said, “it never has lasted and it 
never will. It is a false civilization founded on 
false principles, and history has demonstrated its 
failure in all past ages. To be lasting, civilization 
must rest on the brotherhood of man and the 
golden rule.” 

“ What a spectacle the civilized world of to-day 
presents,” I said. “Man preying upon brother 
man, taking advantage of his ignorance, his help- 
lessness to engorge himself.” 

“Yes,” John acknowledged, “but the sentiment 
of the world, I think, against beasts of prey whether 


312 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


human or not, is growing. This idea of lying in 
wait for some vietim, of sucking the very life- 
blood out of him for your own enrichment, is be- 
ginning to be seen in its true light. The moral 
sentiment of the community on the subject of 
corporations and legalized wrongs is awakening, 
and ^ clear the track ’ is the order of the day.” 

Even if these wrongs are against the spirit of 
humanity,” Mrs. Howard said, “if they are pro- 
tected by the laws of the land, how can they be 
removed } ” 

“If a law is not founded on justice,” John an- 
swered, “on the rights of the many as against the 
privileges of the few, it ought not to be allowed to 
remain on the statute-books. If the people are to 
respect the laws they must be worthy of respect, 
and must be founded on the rights of the 
many.” 

“ Perhaps the time for a new Magna Charta has 
come,” I suggested. 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” John answered. “ Every 
few centuries brings us to just such a trysting 
place in the onward march of humanity. Our 
King John has more heads now than in 1215, 
and the barons are more numerous. That’s all 
the difference.” 

“ Perhaps,” I said, “ it would be nearer the truth 
to say that the masses of to-day occupy the place 
of the barons of old, demanding their rights, while 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


313 


the moneyed barons of to-day are the hydra- 
headed King Johns of modern times.” 

“The time has come,” John went on, “when 
the thinking masses are beginning to look into 
matters and ask questions, and if satisfactory 
reasons for the continued existence of certain 
laws cannot be given, if they are found to be 
obstructions in the path of human happiness and 
progress, assuredly they will be swept away by the 
rising tide of a people’s indignation. Another 
thing,” he added solemnly, “the Runny medes will 
keep recurring with ever-increasing earnestness, 
till ‘ man to man the world o’er shall brithers be 
for a’ that.’ ” 

A colder wave than usual of the mountain air 
swept down the canon. John shivered. “It’s 
growing cold,” he said, “let’s go in.” 

The fresh beauty of another Sabbath morning 
filled the old house. Through open doors and 
windows came the sweet summer air, fragrant 
with the breath of many a distant fir wood and 
flowery hill-side. Hints of the gladsome world 
outdoors swept in and out like birds of passage, 
with healing for mind and body in their wings. 

In the parlor among John’s books I sat, brows- 
ing here and there in pastures of familiar thought, 
now abandoning myself in dreamy content to 
the gracious surrounding influences, then again 
through some gate-way of enchanted thought pass- 


314 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


ing to regions fairer still. Presently as I looked 
and listened, blending with the sights and 
sounds of happy nature floated in the sound of 
church bells, a golden stairway of silver tones 
reaching from earth to heaven. 

That’s the first bell, mamma dear,” I heard 
Marian say. ‘‘You’d better hurry and get ready 
or you’ll be late for church.” 

“ Perhaps I won’t go to church this morning.” 

“Why, mamma, are you sick.?” 

“ Oh no, but I think I’ll stay home with papa 
this morning.” 

Just beyond the open parlor window where I 
sat was the hammock, and in it John. In 
another moment his wife stood beside him. 

“Isn’t it time you were getting ready for church, 
Mary .? ” he said, looking up. “ The first bell has 
rung.” 

“I don’t know that I’ll go to church this morn- 
ing, John. Don’t you want me to stay home with 
you .? ” 

“What for .? ” he inquired wonderingly. 

“ Oh, just to keep you company.” 

“Don’t stay for that reason, Mary,” he said 
kindly. “ I know you would miss your church 
and I’ll be all right.” 

“ Won’t you feel more lonely and perhaps,” 
she added hesitatingly, “ sadder if we all leave 
you .? ” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


315 


shall miss you of course, Mary, I always 
do,” was the reply, ‘‘but I don’t want you to make 
any such sacrifice as staying away from church 
would be. It’s not necessary. I am not sick.” 

“ Maybe I could keep you from thinking if I 
stayed home,” she said, and the wistful tender- 
ness in the voice must have fallen on the tired 
heart like dew on a parched flower. 

He put up his arm and pulled her down before 
•he answered. “I don’t know, little mother, whether 
that would be a blessing. There’s bound to be 
just so much thinking done about this thing before 
I can let it alone, put it away on the top shelf as it 
were. We have to think a long time about the 
inevitable before we can stop thinking about it, or 
fall in love with it as Emerson said he could.” 

“Go with us to-day, John,” she pleaded. “I 
fixed your clothes all over yesterday, rebound 
them as good as any tailor could, and they’ll do 
for these hard times.” 

“ Don’t ask me to do that, Mary. I couldn’t go 
to-day, don’t feel like it.” 

“ I think you would feel better and happier if 
you’d go,” urged his wife gently. 

“I don’t think I would,” he answered. “When 
I’m not happy I’m never religious. When my 
mind is worried I care less for church than at any 
other time. I suppose afflictions are all right, 
there’s a needs be for them or they wouldn’t be. 


316 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


but I tell you candidly they never did me any 
good — ^just freeze me up.” 

Mary rose suddenly and wandered away, look- 
ing down in the grass as if hunting for something. 
Presently she returned holding a few flowers in 
her hand. “ See, John, these exquisite little 
blossoms, their marvelous tinting and shading, 
the numberless pencilings on the delicate petals. 
Could anything be more absolutely flawless ? ” 

“Yes, they are exceedingly beautiful,” he* 
answered. “ I’ve noticed them before. What 
about them ? ” 

“ Guthrie, your old Scotchman said, ‘ God hath 
made perfect flowers, shall He not make perfect 
saints.^’ That’s a beautiful thought, John, and 
has been such a comfort to me for years. I never 
look into the heart of a lovely flower that I don’t 
think of it, and find more meaning to it. It takes 
longer to make a saint than a flower, one has to 
bloom forever in the beauty of character, the 
other for a few short summers, but the same God 
who thought out the perfection of the wayside 
blossom is thinking out the more infinite perfec- 
tion of you and me. All the discipline of life is 
needed for the making of a saint. Back of every 
tiny flower is a long history of preparation ; back 
of every saint is a history longer still. Some day, 
dear husband, in the light of the new Jerusalem, 
when we realize what the beauty of holiness is 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


317 


and that it could only be grown in the checkered 
happenings of earth, we’ll say the end was worth 
the suffering.” 

‘‘Well, maybe, Mary, if time is no object it 
will all come right in the long run, but we’d like 
some of the happiness here. Now if you’re going 
to church, little woman, you’d better get ready.” 

“ Don’t you want me to stay home with you, 
sure V his wife asked. 

“ No, oh no. I’ll get up in a few minutes and 
attend to things in the house.” 

“ I’ll leave the flowers with you,” she said 
smiling, “maybe they’ll preach a better sermon 
than you’d hear down town.” 

When we went to bid him good-bye before 
starting he still lay in the hammock, and in his 
hand I noticed the flowers fast withering. Long 
after Mary showed me a few faded flowers 
pressed in his Mathematical Pocket-Companion. 
On the margin of the leaf in John’s handwrit- 
ing were the words, “Mary’s sermon, God hath 
made perfect flowers, shall he not make perfect 
saints ? ” We looked at them through a mist 
of tears. 

That afternoon as I sat again in the parlor, 
musing and reading, Mary came in. Her face 
looked troubled. Evidently something had oc- 
curred to disturb her usual serenity. For a 
moment she glanced out of the open window 


318 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


at the quiet hills. I’ve just told Marian she 
can’t go to the Fair,” were her first words. 

“How does she take the disappointment.?” I 
asked. 

“Very hard. I never saw Marian so upset 
about anything. She had so set her heart on go- 
ing that the disappointment seems almost more 
than she can bear.” 

“ Do you wonder that she feels so .? ” I inquired. 

“No, I suppose under the circumstances it is 
quite natural,” was the reply. “Her castle in the 
air was very beautiful, she has just lived in it every 
spare minute for weeks, and to have it all tumble 
down so unexpectedly must be a real trial.” 

“Where is Marian now.?” I asked. 

“ Out among the rocks somewhere, her unfail- 
ing refuge in times of trouble. She is a true child 
of nature, when hurt always goes there for conso- 
lation — seems to get it too. After a little I wish 
you would go after her, Philip. A talk with you 
might do her good. It often does.” 

“ Which direction did she take .? ” I inquired. 

“I saw her going up through the fir wood across 
the road,” was the reply. 

“All right, Mary, bye and bye I’ll hunt her up.” 

“Please do,” Mrs. Howard said. “ It will make 
me feel better. Now I won*t interrupt your read- 
ing any more ; John is alone, I’ll go to him.” 

Later in the afternoon Roland and I started to 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


319 


find the runaway. With such a companion the 
task was easy. His grandmother had been a 
Cuban blood-hound, and the trail of friend or foe 
lay clear as a woodland path to him, alike through 
fragrant sage or over barren rock. Simply follow- 
ing my guide, his unerring scent brought us at 
length through devious wanderings to the foot of 
a precipitous wall of rock. Glancing upward I 
caught sight of Marian. Her dress, some sort of 
pink and white stuff, soft seeming as a sunset 
cloud, filled the hollow where she sat, looking like 
a drift of fallen rose-leaves lightly stirred by the 
wind. Only a bird or a butterfly one would have 
supposed could have alighted there. True to the 
instinct of his race, without a moment’s hesitation 
Roland followed the scent steadily upward, thread- 
ing the labyrinths of bowlders with unerring skill. 
In a few moments we stood before Marian in her 
shell-like hiding place. One glance at the sweet 
face showed we were intruders, but retreat was too 
late. 

“ How did you know where to find me ^ ” was 
the first greeting, a shade of impatience mingling 
with the question. 

didn’t find you,” was my reply. “Roland 

did.” 

“I might have known that,” she retorted. 
“You naughty, naughty dog. Why did you 
tell my secret ? ” 


320 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Poor Roland looked crest-fallen. He had ex- 
pected a different reception. 

“Never mind,” I said, patting the huge head 
with its grieving human eyes, “ you’re no worse 
off than your betters, Roland. Young ladies don’t 
always appreciate the devotion of their friends, nor 
their motives in following them.” 

“ Why did you follow me at all } ” she inquired 
irritably. 

“Well,” I answered laughing, “that’s a nice re- 
ception to get after scrambling through a blazing 
hot afternoon to find you, and up places where a 
level-headed goat could hardly hang on.” 

She flushed a little. “ I expect my question did 
sound rude, and that I’m acting abominably, but I 
wanted to be alone Climbed here on purpose to 
get away from everbody.” 

“ Climbed, did you say } ” was my bantering re- 
tort, “ when I saw you first, I wondered whether 
you had floated here like a seed or flown down 
like a bird. How did you manage it ” 

“I don’t know how I got here,” she answered, 
“ was too worked up to notice. Did mama tell 
you about me ? ” she went on suspiciously, “ and 
how like a baby I acted } ” 

“No,” I said, “your mother made no criticism 
of your actions, only mentioned your disappoint- 
ment. We both thought it very natural you should 
feel it keenly ; I feel very sorry for you.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


321 


^'Oh, don’t pity me,” she said pettishly, 
never could bear to be pitied all my life, and don’t 
say any more about it please. Talking don’t do 
any good. I just wish I had never been promised 
to go, that’s all.” 

I was silent for a moment, and thinking perhaps 
I was offended, she asked : “ Are you disgusted at 
my childish petulance ? ” 

^‘Not at all, Marian,” I answered. ^‘In the first 
place you’re not much more than a child, and you 
feel with the intensity of youth. A disappoint- 
ment like this hurts like a real sorrow, I know.” 

“You cannot imagine how much it hurts,” was 
the reply, “ nor how sick I am of living here in 
this narrow rift in the rocks, with nothing to look 
at but the sides of a canon and a strip of blue sky 
like the ceiling of a room. I want a horizon. I’ve 
been here nearly all my life, and I’m tired of it. 
I’m not content with my cage.” 

“That’s not surprising,” I said,, “you were not 
made to be content with such limitations.” 

“ I feel smothered sometimes,” she continued, 
“as if I must press those mountain walls back to 
get air ; yet I love my home, and I do love the 
mountains too, only I long for a change. I envy 
the birds coming and going.” 

In the distance, white with the haste of its wild 
flight seaward, hurried the creek. “ I want to 
follow that creek/’ she went on, “ out and away 


322 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


beyond this shut-in life. It has been like a friend 
to me ever since I can remember. I have sat for 
hours by its side, listening to its ceaseless clatter, 
and watched it rushing away to the world beyond. 
I’ve watched it and said to myself : some day I 
shall go too. I thought the time had come, and to 
feel the prison house close about me again makes 
me wild. A yearning seems to pull me as it does 
the creek, away from the canon out into the wide 
world. I wouldn’t want to stay, — only a little 
while, and then I’d come back to you all content. 
Life don’t seem worth living if it’s always the 
same unvarying round. The monotony is so 
wearisome.” 

Marian,” I said, ‘‘you can follow the creek if 
you want. I’ll help you.” 

“What do you mean ? ” she asked, her eyes full 
of frightened wonder. 

“Nothing much,” I said, “only I’ll be the fairy 
godmother and provide means for the trip. Will 
feel it a privilege to do so, both for your sake and 
your father’s and mother’s. I am like one of the 
family you know, so it’s just the proper thing to 
do.” 

The fair face flushed with the light of happiness, 
the eyes grew bright, and the whole expression 
changed and glowed with joyful anticipation. 

“ How good you are, Philip, to think of such a 
thing. How can I ever thank you ? My castle in 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


323 


the air will be real after all ; ” and at the thought 
she laughed with the glee of a happy child. Sud- 
denly a shadow crept over the brightness and she 
looked thoughtful. 

“ Does papa know what you intended to do ? ” 
she asked. 

“Yes, certainly; I spoke to him about it last 
night when he was telling me he couldn’t let 
you go, and how sorry he felt to disappoint 
you.” 

“ Did he think it would be all right for me to 
take the money } ” 

“ Yes ; he said if you would like to go and were 
willing to accept my offer, he would have no 
objections.” 

“ Why didn’t papa take the money himself from 
you } ” she inquired suddenly. 

I was silent. Here was a snag I hadn’t thought 
of. 

“There’s something about this I don’t under- 
stand,” she went on, looking keenly in my face. 
“ Be honest, Philip ; do you really think papa 
wants me to take the money } ” 

“He is willing you should,” I answered, evasively. 

For a few minutes she looked steadily before 
her, a thinking cap perched unmistakably on the 
wavy masses of golden brown hair. At last she 
said slowly, but decidedly, “ I don’t think I’ll take 
it.” 


324 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Why, Marian, do you feel so ? ” I asked. *‘What 
has caused the change ^ ” 

I understand it all now,” she said slowly. ** I 
didn’t before. For my sake papa is willing to 
sacrifice his own feelings and let me go as your 
guest, but he don’t want me to go all the same. 
He knows best and I think he feels right about it, 
although I don’t know his reasons.” 

She was her father’s daughter clear through. 
Their moral fibre was alike. 

“ I think you are over-particular about a trifle, 
Marian,” I answered. “You are voluntarily put- 
ting away the greatest opportunity and pleasure 
of your life. There is no necessity for doing that. 
I am an old friend of the family, am abundantly 
able to send you, am more than anxious to do so, 
and your father is willing you should go ; what 
more do you want 1 ” 

She looked hesitatingly at me for an instant. 
“ It seems like taking so much, and after all I 
have no claim on you, we are not even related.” 

I had not meant to betray my secret, but before 
I knew the sudden passionate impulse of the 
moment had swept aside the barriers of resolu- 
tion, and my hidden feelings were pouring through 
the floodgate of words. 

“Yes, Marian,” I said, “you have a claim on 
me, the strongest this world can give, — the claim 
of love.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


825 


One swift glance at my face and I saw she 
understood. Entreatingly one hand went out 
as' if to stop me, but it was too late. There could 
be no backward sweep of the tide now till it had 
spent its force in speech. Taking the small sun- 
burnt hand in mine I told her the old, old story. 

I had not meant to tell you this to-day, Marian,” 
I said, ‘‘but I must. I love you. Long ago I 
thought I knew what love was, but I was mis- 
taken ; it was but the dream of a boy, a fancy as 
airy as a cobweb when compared to this, and as 
easily swept out of my life. This is the passion 
of a man, rooted so deeply in my nature that to 
pull it up would be to pull my heart up with it.' 
It is a love for all time and for all eternity, I 
believe.” 

Lower drooped the graceful head and the deep- 
fringed eyelids hid what I fain would read. 

“ Can you not speak to me, Marian, and give me 
one word of hope .^ ” I asked pleadingly. 

She shook her head and a pained look shad- 
owed the expression. 

“No, Philip,” she said at last, “I’m afraid I 
cannot. You’ve been so good to us all. You are 
so noble and so unselfish I would do anything for 
you but, — ” 

“ Marry me,” I interrupted. 

“Yes,” she said, raising her eyes and looking 
in mine with that honest, straightforward expres- 


326 the story OF A CANON, 

sion I had always liked, “I cannot promise to 
do that.” 

Perhaps I have taken you by surprise,” I sug- 
gested, and if you had more time to think it all 
over you might give a different answer.” 

“You have taken me by surprise, undoubtedly,” 
she answered smiling. “ I had never thought of 
you in any light but that of the truest, best of 
friends, next to papa the best, the most unselfish 
man I ever knew. I don’t think though that any 
amount of time would make me change my mind.” 

“I know,” I said bitterly, “there is a great dif- 
ference in our age ; you probably look upon me 
as an old fogy.” 

“I never thought of you in any such way, 
Philip,” she retorted indignantly. “You are 
)'der and wiser than I am, but at heart you are 
j ist as young. I have never felt any difference in 
c ir age, and if I had it wouldn’t have made any 
d fference in my love. Love knows nothing of 
a^ e, and if we love any one they never grow old 
to us.” 

■ ^ If you feel that way, Marian, and my age is 
no obstacle, will you not try to love me as I do 
you ? ” 

She trembled visibly, her agitation became more 
marked, and tears filled and overflowed the ten- 
der, honest eyes. “ I cannot promise even that,” 
she answered, “ and oh, it does seem cruelly wrong 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


327 


to treat you so after all your unvarying kindness 
to me. Why, you’ve been the fairy godmother of 
my life, opened up new worlds of thought to me 
and given me ideas I never would have had. 
You’ve taught me the meaning, not only of his- 
tory and poetry, but of life itself.” 

“ Let me teach you one thing more, darling,” I 
whispered, “ how to love me. I think I can do it. 
Let me try. We will go away with the creek, not 
only seaward but beyond. We will cross the 
ocean. We will see all the places we have read 
and talked about together. We will wander amid 
the purple bloom of the heathery hills, by the 
banks of the blue Danube, through stately Vienna, 
down to where the blue crystal of the Mediterra- 
nean breaks through the golden glow of eternal 
summer on its classic vine-clad shores. We will 
see beautiful Venice by moonlight, that marvel of 
Gothic architecture, Milan Cathedral, and the 
Alhambra. We will wander through miles of pict- 
ure-galleries and hear music that will seem like 
strains from heaven itself. I know your father 
will trust you with me. Will you come I will 
make you happy, Marian, I know I can.” 

My impetuosity bewildered her for a moment, — 
bore her on its strong current away even from 
herself. She seemed mine. From tufted crevice 
and waving shrub in many a fissure of the grey 
rocks floated down the summer song of mating 


328 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


birds. The magic influence of love and spring 
was throbbing everywhere alike through nature 
and through man. Gently I drew her nearer. 
Unconsciously as the flowers bend to the light she 
leaned towards me, and for an instant the flower- 
like face rested on my shoulder, a flush more deli- 
cate than the wild rose bloom deepening the exqui- 
site tint of her cheek. Suddenly she broke away 
with a low cry and hid her face in both hands. 
“ I cannot, oh, I cannot, Philip,” she murmured ; 
“your will is stronger than mine, I have always 
yielded to it, but be m.erciful and do not urge me 
in this.” 

“ Do not fear me, child,” I said, taking and 
holding with gentle force the small brown hands 
that quivered in mine like frightened birds. “ I 
will not urge you to do anything contrary to your 
own fine instinct. Answer me but one question 
and then we will leave this subject forever. Do 
you love any one else better } ” 

“ I think I do,” she answered, in a low, broken 
voice. Seeing the agony in my face she added 
quickly, “ but oh, Philip, don’t look like that or I 
can never be happy again. What can I do } 
Would you want me to marry you if I loved 
somebody else better } ” 

“Great heavens, no!” I exclaimed. “Not to 
save my life would I have you do such a thing.” 

“Am I to blame at all } ” she asked. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 329 

“ Not in the least,” I said, “ I ought to have 
known better than to ask you. I almost knew 
your heart was another’s.” 

She started, glancing up with large wide open 
eyes like a startled deer. 

‘^You love Charlie Hey wood, do you not?” I 
asked. 

Yes, I think I do,” she said slowly, as if re- 
volving the thought in her mind. I know he is 
not all he should be, not as worthy of a girl’s love 
as you are, but I love him.” 

“That cannot be helped,” I answered. “Love 
goes where it pleaseth, not always where it ought 
or even where we would have it go. Now dear,” 
I went on, “ we will say no more about this mat- 
ter. You have always been my dear little friend, 
my best of comrades. I want you to be so still. 
Forget my foolish words. Let them make no dif- 
ference in our frank, friendly intercourse.” 

“ And you are not angry with me, you will not 
put me out of your life ? ” she asked pleadingly. 
“ I could not bear that.” 

“No, I could not do that if I wanted,” I said 
sadly. “You shall be to me what you always have 
been, and for your sake I will be to Charlie as an 
elder brother. As far as he will allow me I will 
help him,” and in my mind I thought, help him to be- 
come worthy of you. “ Now before we start home,” 
I continued, “will you grant me one favor? ” 


330 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*‘What favor?" she asked wonderingly. 

“ Let me send you to Chicago just as a brother 
might." 

‘‘ Oh no, Philip," she answered, “ I couldn’t do 
that — now less than ever accept such a gift from 
one I had wronged so cruelly, though uninten- 
tionally. Why, the ingratitude of such a thing 
would kill me." 

I should like to send you," I said, it would 
add to my happiness." 

‘‘ It is perfectly out of the question, Philip," 
was the decided reply ; “ don’t ever suggest such 
a thing. I couldn’t accept such an offer." 

“ Sure?” 

Sure." 

And the look of determination showed that 
volume was sealed. 

On our way home I spoke of her father. 

‘‘You do not think he is ill?" she inquired 
anxiously. 

“ No, not ill in the ordinary sense, perhaps, but 
he is heart-sick. You know how you felt over not 
getting away. Your disappoinment is a trifle 
compared with your father’s. He has been toil- 
ing for nearly twenty-five years to make a stake, 
and now in a moment, almost, his hopes have 
foundered and he is left penniless. At his time 
of life that is a serious experience, besides he is 
worn out and needs a change. The greatest in- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


B31 


jury, though, is mental. He is thoroughly dis- 
couraged, and with a man like your father that 
means a whole lot. Forgive me for saying so, 
Marian, but I think lately you have not treated 
him quite right.” 

Has papa sa4d anything ? ” she asked, the 
color deepening in her cheek. 

No, indeed. That’s the last thing he would 
ever do. Your father has always consumed his 
own smoke. No matter how deeply he was 
wounded he’d never say anything, but I know 
him so well that I can feel how your coldness has 
hurt him, can see it in fact. There’s been a wist- 
ful sadness in his eyes when he’d look at you of 
late that hurt me.” 

I thought he was unreasonable, unjust,” she 
murmured. 

“Never think that again, Marian,” I replied. 
“You could no more fathom the love of such a 
nature as your father’s than you could the depth 
of the ocean. Even when you do not understand 
him or his motives, trust him always and give him 
all the love you can, especially now when he needs 
it.” She was silent, but I could see she was moved. 

After supper when I came out on the porch I 
found John and Marian sitting there. She sat on 
a low stool at his side, resting her head lovingly 
against him, and holding his hand caressingly 
between hers. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Fourth of July. Who has not at times dreaded 
its coming, execrated its noisy, sulphurous confu- 
sion, rejoiced in its close, in the safe gathering of 
another relic to its illustrious ancestors ? Who 
has not laid it away in the cedar chest of memory 
with a heart full of patriotic thankfulness that he 
had done his duty and yet lived, that his home 
was still a standing miracle and he and his be- 
longings not mutilated fragments ? For more than 
a century has it not been the stirring youngster of 
the year, “chuck full of boy,” bubbling over with 
reckless fun and lawless deviltry ? A nuisance, yet 
an ever welcome guest whose boisterous, jovial 
presence we could not have spared from our midst. 
Its clear-cut American individualism, the profound 
meaning in its madness, the sentiment back of the 
endless cracklings and hissings have endeared it 
to every loyal heart. 

For the sake of old traditions, for the sake of 
Young America and the lessons of patriotism 
and humanity to be learned, each generation 
has gladly tolerated this freak of civilization, 

332 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


333 


turned its cities into pandemonium, and sacri- 
ficed the love of order and quiet on the altar 
of country. 

Even in this quiet valley the spirit of the Fourth 
was ever on time, or ahead of it, and for twenty- 
four hours this carnival was celebrated with all 
the wild enthusiasm, if not the splendor, of the far 
East. From many a surrounding peak and ledge 
huge bonfires blazed, and at intervals the thunder 
of giant powder ignited by “ the boys ” rolled in 
waves of deafening sound around the battlements 
of the Rockies. This was the miner’s welcome to 
the Fourth, that day in which, as in a moss-agate, 
was crystallized the beautiful result of long ages 
of thought. 

For years we had been chronic grumblers at the 
unearthly and untimely disturbances that had 
broken our rest. This night we had no cause 
for complaint. No salute of mountain artillery 
reverberated through the canon, or loosened the 
wild echoes of the hills. With the silence of a 
funeral train the Fourth of July crept over the 
mountain tops, but no salute welcomed its coming. 
The silence was more appalling than the wildest 
uproar would have been. 

At the breakfast table this unusual quiet was 
the wonder of the hour. 

It’s a queer Fourth,” growled Harry, a look of 
disgust on his freckled, open face, ‘^I’ve been 


334 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


down town and it’s just like Sunday. There ain’t 
any houses fixed up even.” 

Maybe it’s too early yet,” suggested Mrs. 
Howard. 

“ There’s lots of miners on the streets,” retorted 
Harry, “but they’re just hanging round the 
corners as if they didn’t care for anything. I 
think it’s a regular sell.” 

“ Hold on a little, Harry,” said John cheerfully, 
“ and we’ll all get up steam. We’ll make things 
livelier yet. ^ The boys ’ didn’t have the heart 
to make the usual racket last night, that was 
all.” 

“You’ll have all the noise and fun you want,” I 
interrupted, “before the day is done. I’ve got 
a whole box of stuff up stairs for you and 
Marjorie.” 

“Goodie, goodie,” laughed the little maiden, 
“ can we set ’em off now } ” 

“No, stupid,” answered her brother, “don’t you 
know we’ll have to wait till night ? We couldn’t 
see them in the daylight.” 

“I wish it was night now,” was the eager 
response. 

“ It soon will be,” said her father, “ and after 
it’s dark I’ll help you set them off. Phil’s Fourth 
of July boxes are usually worth something.” 

“That’s what ! ” laughed Harry, his eyes twink- 
ling in boyish anticipation. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


335 


‘‘la the meantime,” suggested Mrs. Howard, 
“you might use up the fire-crackers you have.” 

“Can I go and see him do it .^ ” asked 
Marjorie. 

“Yes, on conditions ; your brother must promise 
to be very careful, and you must promise not to 
touch anything.” 

The promise given the two started out, their 
hearts filled with such “long, long thoughts of 
joy,” as youth alone can give. 

“I was just thinking,” John said, “that the 
stillness of this Fourth might be prophetic. The 
absence of enthusiasm to-day here arises from 
local, possibly temporary causes, but there are 
causes at work that will produce the same apathy 
all over the United States before many years if 
they are not checked.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” Mary asked. 

“The Fourth of July as you know,” he an- 
swered, “ was meant by its founders to be more 
than a holiday. It was the glorification of a prin- 
ciple, the celebration of a great historic act. 
Looked at in that light what meaning has it 
to-day .? ” 

“That’s so,” she acknowledged, “the first 
Fourth was meant to celebrate the cutting loose 
of this country from England, and her independ- 
ence of its government, but she doesn’t seem to 
have much independence to celebrate nowadays.” 


336 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“Well,” her husband responded, “when the 
spirit dies out of anything, whether it’s an insti- 
tution or a day, it’s only a question of time when 
it’ll be shovelled out of sight and memory.” 

“It seems strange,” Mary went on, “that the 
people in this country are willing to submit to 
foreign dictation about their money matters. 
They’ve never felt that way before, but have 
always resented any kind of interference from 
England and gloried in their independence.” 

“The mass of true Americans feel that way 
yet,” John said, “but a select few have combined 
to change the monetary system of the United 
States for their own selfish ends. England wants 
a gold standard, and they profess to believe that 
America must fall in line with England’s 
wishes.” 

“That does seem almost past belief,” Mrs. 
Howard exclaimed, “ that the United States 
would be willing to change the very financial 
foundations on which the country was laid to suit 
the bitterest enemy she ever had.” 

“ Shows a fine Christian spirit,” her husband 
replied. “ England’s the greatest creditor nation 
of the world, America the great debtor. The 
policy that is good for one can’t be good for the 
other. Doing away with one of the money 
metals immeasurably increases the value of the 
one retained. As all foreign debts have to be 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


337 


paid in gold, it’s a great blessing to the creditor 
nation, although it’s ruination to the debtor, — 
but then, if thine enemy hunger for gold, feed him. 
It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and 
what’s our loss is England’s gain.” 

“ If the people of ’76 had thought as much of 
the wishes of England,” said Mrs. Howard, “and 
been as afraid of her power, the Declaration of 
Independence would never have been written 
maybe.” 

“No, it never would,” answered John, “but the 
people then didn’t wonder whether they were able 
to run their own government without European 
assistance, — they just did it. That settled the 
question. When they wanted a mint for the coin- 
age of silver and gold, they built it. What we 
want now is the spirit of ’76, and we’ll do it 
again.” 

“ Can any nation be said to possess real inde- 
pendence if she can’t manage her own money 
matters } ” I queried. 

“No, I don’t think she can,” was John’s reply. 
“ When a country loses her monetary inde- 
pendence, her political independence can’t be 
founded on a rock. Fourth of July rightly looked 
at,” he went on, “is the greatest day in the world. 
It was the first day of a happy New Year for all 
humanity, for the oppressed of all nations ; the 
commencement of a new and higher civilization. . 


338 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


No nation in Europe or Asia could possibly have 
such a day. Outside of this country there is no 
reason for its being, and if conditions in America 
for the working man keep gravitating downward 
as they have been doing, there won’t be any rea- 
son for its celebration here. They can keep up 
the day for the sake of having a good time, and as 
a kind of escape valve for the overflow enthusiasm 
of the young folks, but it will have no more mean- 
^ing than circus day.” 

“ I have noticed a great change creeping over 
the country since I was a girl,” Mrs. Howard said. 
“ It isn’t so intensely national or patriotic as it 
used to be, nor so democratic. In reading the 
eastern newspapers and the accounts of the 
doings back there, I have been particularly 
struck by this. English ideas, manners and 
customs are rapidly taking possession of the 
wealthier classes, and every snobbish, dudish 
folly of the English metropolis is transplanted 
to New York and carefully tended till it’s 
acclimated.” 

'‘Then,” I suggested, “it’s worn as people do 
asters, not for the beauty of them but because it’s 
a fad.” 

“Ya,” John answered, “the seeds of the same 
old tyrannies and abuses that your forefathers 
crossed the sea to get away from are being 
planted here, and they’re spreading worse than 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


339 


the Canada thistle. They’ll choke the life out of 
this republic before long, as they have done out 
of all other republics, if they’re not uprooted. 
No thoughtful, patriotic American can study the 
tendencies of the times without serious alarm. 
More than the life of the great commemorative 
Fourth is in danger.” 

It did seem,” Mrs. Howard went on, *‘as if 
God had purposely kept back the discovery of 
America till the people in many lands were ready 
for it, but it doesn’t look as if we were after all. 
This country was His gift to the masses, to the 
poor of everywhere. The rich had taken posses- 
sion of the Old World, but here with the wide 
Atlantic rolling between was a chance for all the 
children to start in afresh and get their share. 
They haven’t appreciated the gift, at all events 
they haven’t known how to take care of it.” 

There’s room enough yet,” John said, “chance 
enough for everybody to get his share if things 
were differently managed, but the strong have 
been allowed to shoulder the weaker and more 
stupid to one side, and through their hoggish 
greed take not only their own birthright, but 
their brother’s.” 

“The worst feature to me,” I interrupted, “is 
that legislation has inflicted most of those social 
wrongs. Laws have favored the few to the injury 
of the many.” 


340 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“How can that be remedied, then?” asked 
Mary. “We can’t fight against the law.” 

“No,” answered John, “not as long as it is a 
law, but we can change it.” 

“ How?” 

“Through the ballot. The masses have been 
split up into factions, they have not known their 
power, and have been driven like sheep by false 
shepherds hither and thither because they didn’t 
know any better. Now they are waking up to a 
knowledge of their rights and their power. They 
realize that there’s something awfully wrong, un- 
natural even, in the existing condition of affairs. 
That’s the reason of the present discontent.” 

“Do you wonder at the discontent ? ” I asked. 
“ Does it seem right that some men should have to 
work ten or twelve hours a day and every day of 
the week, while others spend their years fishing, 
hunting, traveling, walking about with their hands 
in their pockets trying to kill time ? ” 

“ How did they ever come to have such privi- 
leges ? ” Mary asked. “ Do you think they ever 
earned them ? ” 

“ I do not,” her husband answered. “ They 
probably wrested them out of the rights of others, 
or their ancestors did before them. That such 
has been the condition in the past, is no argume^it 
that it should continue to be so in the future I' 

“And now, John,” interrupted Mrs. Howard, 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


341 


excuse me, but are you going to Silver Ridge 
to-day ? " 

“ Yes, certainly,” was the reply. 

“ I think we would have a pleasanter time at 
home,” she suggested, ^‘it will be very dull up 
there and we’ll have such a hot walk.” 

‘‘I promised we would go, Mary,” was the 
answer. 

Of course,” I laughed, '^if John promised that 
settles it. Did you ever know him to break his 
word ? ” 

“ I don’t know that I ever did,” she answered, 
‘‘and I’m proud of it, so I suppose he’ll have to 
live up to his reputation.” 

Turning to her husband she said : “What time 
do you want to start ? ” 

“Any time after twelve.” 

“Well, I’ll get a light lunch and we can leave 
about one. Will that suit you ? ” 

“ That’ll do, Mary. In the meantime, Phil, we 
can go and see what the youngsters are doing and 
have a smoke.” 

The sun poured down with a pitiless glare from 
the cloudless sky, and realizing what a two mile 
walk up a dusty canon meant under such cir- 
cumstances, I slipped down to Hopetown and 
engaged a carriage to take us. 

At one o’clock sharp we were ready to start, 
Marian in the pink and white dress she had worn 


342 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


on Sunday, looking more like the wild June roses 
than ever. “What a very becoming dress that 
is,” I ventured to remark. 

“Yes,” assented Mrs. Howard, “it is pretty; 
although inexpensive the effect is good.” 

“ Don’t you know,” laughed Marian, “ that this 
is one of mamma’s poetic creations } ” 

“ I’m not surprised to hear you call it that,” I 
answered, “for it makes me think of the tossing 
sprays of an orchard in bloom.” 

“That’s just what I was thinking of all the time 
I was making it,” said Mrs. Howard. 

“ What is it these painter fellows talk so much 
about ” inquired John. “Symphony of color, 
isn’t it } You’re a pink and white symphony, even 
to your cheeks, Marian.” 

“ It’s a pity her eyes ain’t pink instead of blue,” 
suggested Marjorie, “she’d look pretty then.” 

“ Oh you little goose,” broke in Harry, “ what a 
guy she’d be ; she’d look like a white rabbit.” 

As we stepped into the hall, through the open 
front door the carriage in waiting came in sight. 
It was a genuine surprise and a very pleasant one 
we found it. So long as horses had to toil up the 
steep dusty ascent, we could take our ease and 
enjoy the magnificent panorama of sculptured 
rock and flowery hillside ; could feel the freshness 
in the sweet mountain air, and see the beauty of 
the golden shade resting upon the slopes of aro- 


THE STORY OF A CA^ON. 343 

matic sage, or the soft, beautiful tints nestling 
against the hard featured gray rock. 

‘‘ Many a tragedy has been wheeled over this 
road,” said Mrs. Howard, thoughtfully. 

What do you mean, mamma ? ” asked Marian. 

“I was thinking,” answered her mother, ‘‘ how 
many a poor fellow has gone up this road in the 
fullness of life and hope in the morning, and been 
carried home before evening crippled for life — or 
dead. I can think of so many cases — have seen 
them brought home past the house.” 

Yes,” assented John, “ a miner has a hard life, 
full of danger, and nothing sure in the end. It’s a 
kind of hit or miss business all the way through.” 

“I never shall cease wondering,” Mary said, 
‘‘why so many men like it.” 

“Just because of its independence,” John 
answered. “ If a man is dependent on the caprice 
of another man for wages, for the privilege of 
living his life in his own way, he’s not free, so 
he’d rather take his chance with nature’s caprice 
than with man’s, even if he does not live half so 
well. But with our present law-makers a miner 
faces both.” 

Silver Ridge, our destination, had no visible 
attraction. It was only a silver camp, nestling in 
a rift of the hills, with no outlet apparent except 
the wide natural gateways at either end through 
which the creek rushed in and out. The town 


344 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


proper lay in the bottom of the canon. High 
precipitous walls of rock shut it in, and from base 
to summit huge dumps disfigured yet humanized 
the rugged slopes. Kinder, more hospitable 
natures than dwelt in this secret rock-hewn 
chamber of God’s universe could not be found. 
The shut in, simple life, the independence, the 
daily wrestle with nature, had developed an in- 
dividualism rarely met with in more civilized con- 
ventional circles. Our first stop was at the house 
of one of these characters, Phil Dawson. He met 
us on the threshold in his shirt-sleeves, of course, 
his frankly humorous face beaming kindly welcome. 

“ Come right in, we’re almighty glad to see 
you,” was the hearty greeting. 

“ It’s a little late in the day,” said Mrs. 
Howard, “ I suppose you thought we were not 
coming.” 

“ No, we didn’t think that ; John said you’d be 
along sometime, and what John Howard says you 
can bank on.” 

“ What’s your program for to-day, Dawson ” 
inquired John. 

“ We haven’t got much of any. The boys have 
been figuring for months on having a big time this 
Fourth, but the shutting down of the Indian mints 
and the Hopetown bank has just naturally knocked 
the bottom out of everything. The boys have 
been hanging round the streets all week, too, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


845 


but I guess they didn’t have the heart to take 
hold.” 

Mrs. Dawson soon made her appearance. She 
was a quiet little woman, motherly and kind, but 
more reserved in manner than was her husband. 

“ Have you been to dinner ? ” was her first 
question. 

“ Oh, yes, we had lunch before leaving home,” 
said Mrs. Howard. 

“ Let me get you a cup of tea, anyway,” she 
urged. It’ll do you good after your dusty drive.” 
Our refusal seemed to disappoint her, and not 
until John suggested that we could return later for 
that purpose was her hospitable instinct satisfied. 

“Tea’s well enough in its place,” broke in 
Dawson, “ but when your throat’s dry as a lime 
kiln ’tain’t no good for me, won’t lay the dust 
even. A glass of beer is more like it, eh, boys ? ” 

John acquiesced laughingly, and from some cool 
recess in the mountain, back of their house, the 
beer was brought. 

“At two,” continued Dawson, “there’s going to 
be a base-ball game. We might go down to that. 
There’s nothing else going on.” 

“That’s good enough,” answered John. “We’ll 
go there.” 

“We were expecting to have such a nice Fourth 
this time,” began Mrs. Dawson, “the whole town 
was to be decorated, they were to have games and 


S46 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


races and lots of visitors were coming, but nobody 
cares to do anything, it seems, now.” 

‘‘ The outlook’s changed, that’s why,” retorted 
her husband, *^and folks’ feelin’s have changed 
accordin’. I tell you life’s a serious thing these 
days. People have neither heart nor money to 
waste on decorations, they don’t know how long 
they’ll have a house or anything else to decorate.” 

At this moment a knock came at the door. It 
was Charlie Hey wood in search of Marian. They 
had arranged previously to go to the ball ground 
together. Unquestionably they were a fine look- 
ing couple, and in many respects the match would 
be a very suitable one. So much the clear, cool 
intellect decided, but notwithstanding, the heart 
throbbed in bitter rebellion at the sight. As they 
stood in the little low-roofed room their presence 
filled it with a radiance as palpable as the glowing 
sunshine outside, and when they left the sunshine 
seemed to go also, leaving us in the shadow of a 
gray twilight. 

For some time I had noticed Tom Dawson look- 
ing keenly at John. At last he broke out in his 
blunt, off-hand fashion, ‘Hhese times have been 
pretty hard on you, Mr. Howard. I hear you’ve 
lost the sale of your mine.” 

*‘Yes,” was the quiet reply, “the parties backed 
out.” 

“ I’m sorry you didn’t get the sale through a 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


347 


week sooner,” Tom went on. ^‘You look bad, 
time you quit work. Man,” he continued earnestly, 
^‘you’re gettin’ to look old. You must be gettin’ 
along in years ; le’me see, — you must be forty- 
six or seven.” 

“ I am forty-seven,” was the reply. 

“That ain’t very old neither, but you’re agein’ 
fast, never noticed it afore though. Your husband 
used to be a fine lookin’ man, Mrs. Howard.” 

“ I think he’s a fine looking man yet,” Mary 
answered proudly, “ only he’s tired looking to-day. 
He’s handsomer than he was twenty years ago to 
my notion.” 

“Love’s blind, you know, Tom,” John said, 
“that accounts for that speech, and when a wo- 
man’s in love with a man there’s no saying what 
she’ll see or not see.” 

“Handsomer than he was twenty years ago ! ” 
Tom mused, “ that’s a queer idea. I’ve heard tell 
of such yarns in books, but land o’ the livin’, I 
never thought no one believed it. If ye can feel 
that way it must be rare good stuff to live by, — 
so long as you’re tied to a partner for life. Now 
there’s my old woman. I dunno but I cotton to 
her as much as I ever did, but then I can see she 
ain’t bran’ new, lots of the shine’s wore off.” 

“ She’s none the worse for that, is she } ” 
queried Mrs. Howard. 

“No, so far as use goes, and I reckon that 


348 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


what’s we got married for. What do you say, 
Mary Anne.? Do ye think I’m as good lookin’ as 
when I was courtin’ ye.?” 

“I don’t know about that,” she answered 
demurely, ^‘but I like you better.” 

Tom burst out laughing. “ Come to think, 
that’s just my fix. I’ve found out you’re pretty 
good to tie to, and that’s worth lots in this 
world.” 

“ Handsome is that handsome does,” John said, 
“ that’s about the size of it, particularly in a 
wife.” 

*^No,” answered Mary, “not quite. It means 
that and a great deal more. If we live our lives 
rightly, there’s a beauty comes into our faces 
greater than the beauty that goes out. Some 
poet says : 

‘ The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed, 

Lets in new light through chinks which time has made.’ 

It lets it out as well, and the light of a noble 
character shining out more than makes up for 
the passing of youth’s brightness.” 

An expression of interest lightened Tom’s face. 

“I begin to understand. Makes me think of 
my old grandmother. She lived with us way 
back in Philadelphia. She must have been eighty 
odd. Her body was nothing but a dried up husk, 
but I used to think as a boy she had the sweetest 
face I ever saw. Her room was the heart of the 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


349 


house, and everybody, from father down, crowded 
there as naturally as we did round the stove for 
winter. Grandmother was the youngest in the 
family, and we boys got more sympathy from her 
than from anybody. That’s so.” 

“ I think we all think and talk too much about 
growing old,” continued Mrs. Howard. '‘So far 
as the real you and I are concerned we need 
never grow old, and certainly we need not talk 
about it so persistently. It’s not a pleasant sub- 
ject of conversation, although a common one.” 

" Maybe, like the weather, it’s one of the inevi- 
table staples,” suggested John. 

“ It’s a relic of barbarism,” answered his wife, 
“and the sooner it’s laid away with a few other 
heir-looms on the top shelf, the better. If I have 
on a dress that begins to look old and shabby and 
can’t get another, do you think it’s very polite to 
tell me about it, ask how many years I’ve worn 
it ? If it is growing old I know it, feel it, more 
than you do.” 

“Any fellow,” objected Dawson, “that would 
talk about a woman’s dress or a man’s either, 
would be in pretty small business, but it seems 
all right to talk about their age.” 

“It seems no more right to me than the other,” 
said Mrs. Howard in her gentle, persuasive fashion. 
“My body’s only my soul’s dress. It’s growing 
old of course, but it’s neither kind nor well-bred 


350 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


to be constantly reminding me of it, as many 
people have a way of doing, or even thinking about 
it in your own mind, far less talking about it to 
others.” 

^‘Well,” said John looking at his watch, ‘‘if we 
want to see that base-ball game, we’ll have to let 
up on this discussion and start,” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


The base-ball grounds of Silver Ridge were 
unique. A little below town among a wild confu- 
sion of rocks, you came suddenly on an open 
space encircled by gray boulders. It was a sort 
of natural amphitheatre, and here on this level, 
with its picturesque surroundings overlooking the 
winding canon, the foaming creek and the green 
holms on its banks, was the arena for public sports. 
It was the center of attraction for both sexes that 
day, and as we climbed our way over fallen trees, 
twisted roots, and fantastic shapes of stone inlaid 
and sparkling with mica, it was curious and inter- 
esting to look down on this hollow of the hills 
with its motley crowd of humanity. The players 
were already in position, and among the tiers of 
encircling bowlders under the fir trees, sat or 
stood hundreds of interested spectators. Over 
all poured the tropical rays of a Colorado July, 
and from the gray rocks fluttered gay-colored sun- 
shades, looking from our point of vantage like an 
army of butterflies. I ought to have become 
intensely interested in the game, but somehow I 


352 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


could not. Thoughts and eyes were continually 
leaving the field and wandering round the circuit 
in search of something else. At last on a shelf 
of rock in the shade of a spreading fir they found 
what they sought. As I glanced in the direction 
Marian waved her handkerchief, and turning to 
Charlie said something. Judging by the attitudes 
an animated conversation ensued, and then she 
arose, Charlie reluctantly following her example. 
In a few moments they stood beside us. 

‘‘Where is mamma ? ” was the first question. 

“She has gone to see Mrs. Rafferty.” 

“ We noticed you when you first came, and I 
was surprised by her absence.” 

She moved close to her father and laid one 
hand caressingly on his arm. He turned and 
looked into her eyes with a pleased expression ; 
the old-time feeling was evidently there. “ Are 
you enjoying yourself, papa } ” 

“Yes, I am quite interested in the game. 
Aren’t you } ” 

“No, not much. I don’t understand it very 
well.” 

“I’ve explained it to you,” said Charlie, “but 
you didn’t seem to take much interest.” 

“ Won’t you sit down ? ” I asked. “ Here’s a 
pleasant seat.” 

“ Oh no, thanks,” Charlie broke in hurriedly, 
“our old seats are much better than this. We’ll 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


353 


go back to them. I didn’t want to come down at 
all, but Marian would come. Let’s go back,” he 
added, looking at her rather peremptorily. 

I don’t want to go back, Charlie. I’d a great 
deal rather stay here. It seems nice to be all 
together.” 

She sat down just back of me, Charlie remain- 
ing standing, an air of annoyance darkening his 
handsome face. 

“Won’t you sit down ” Marian asked pleas- 
antly. 

“ No, thank you, I don’t care to sit.” Lowering 
his voice, he added : “ I don’t see why you wont 
go back to our old place, the view’s better.” 

“ I like to stay with the folks, it seems more 
sociable,” was the reply. 

“Great Caesar!” he muttered, “I should think 
■you’d see enough of your folks at home. I’d hate 
to be tied to my family’s apron strings as you 
are to yours.” 

“Don’t talk that way, please, Charlie,” she 
responded with more dignity than usual. “I’m 
not tired of my family yet, never expect to be. If 
you are you don’t have to stay with us.” 

“ Oh, don’t be so touchy, Marian, and don’t put 
a meaning in my words that don’t belong there. 
It’s your indifference that makes me say bitter 
and even rude things.” 

“ I’m not indifferent, Charlie, it’s just my way. 


354 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


You ought to know me by this time, I never was 
impulsive.” 

“No, but you’re headstrong enough to make up 
for it,” he answered. “You’re like one of those 
quiet, deep rivers that seem so easy to cross till 
you try to do it, then you find out what the cur- 
rent is.” 

“You make me out quite strong minded,” ex- 
claimed Marian, laughing. 

“No,” he said decidedly, “there’s no nonsense 
of that kind about you. If there was I wouldn’t 
feel as I do. A masculine woman and a feminine 
man are caricatures. I don’t know which I 
despise the most. You’re intensely womanly. 
That’s just your charm to me.” 

“Hush,” she whispered, “people will hear 
you.” 

“ I don’t care if they do, but if you’re afraid let’s 
go back to your old seat. It’s more retired.” 

“Oh, no,” she answered, “not now, it would 
look silly. We’re just as well off here.” 

“ No you’re not, you’re nearer to me up there. 
I like to have you to myself.” 

“You’re missing all the outs and ins of that 
game. Hadn’t you better pay more attention to 
that ? ” she said, demurely. 

“You’re a beautiful riddle, Marian,” I heard 
him murmur passionately. “The shyest, sweet- 
est girl I ever met. I have known you all my life. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


355 


and I don’t know you yet. You’re different from 
all the other girls. There’s always something elu- 
sive about you, like the butterflies I used to hunt 
when I was a boy; you’re always gone just when I 
think I’ve surely caught you.” 

If you catch a butterfly against its will,” she 
retorted coquettishly, “you’re likely to injure its 
delicate charm, are you not.? ” 

“ Not if it’s a sweet girl butterfly like you,” was 
the gallant reply, “and I am the hunter.” 

Realizing that confessionals of this kind were 
designed for two only, I arose and stepped nearer 
the rest of the party. For a little time we 
watched the game in silence, then John turned 
to me with the question : “You know Aleck Dug- 
gan, don’t you.?” 

“Oh yes, know him well.” 

“ Did you notice him this afternoon .? ” 

I shook my head. 

“ Well, look at him ; he’s sitting about fifty 
yards to the right on a big bowlder with a very 
pretty girl beside him.” 

I looked in the direction and had no difficulty 
in placing the couple. She was a strikingly pretty 
girl of about twenty, a typical Irish beauty, with 
the glossy black hair, blue eyes and rosy com- 
plexion of her race. A fitting match she seemed 
for stalwart Aleck, with his handsome Saxon 
face and his fine manly presence. Yet he sat 


356 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


beside her with a listless, dejected air, and a 
a look of sadness and thought most remarkable 
under the circumstances, especially with a gal- 
lant ladies’ man like Aleck Duggan. She looked 
as if she might be the very embodiment of mirth 
and frolicsome nonsense, innocent coquetry even, 
and we all knew him to be one of the lightest- 
hearted boys in the camp, the life of every social 
gathering, and always ready for every good time 
that came his way. What did it mean ? I looked 
at John inquiringly. 

Something wrong; don’t look right, does it ” 
he said. 

“ No, what’s the matter,” I asked. 

Dawson’s just been telling me about them,” 
he replied. “ They were to have been married 
next month, and now as things look it seems 
doubtful if the wedding ever will take place.” 

“ What lovers’ snag have they run against ? ” I 
inquired. 

“The condition of affairs. That’s the snag in 
the present instance,” John answered. “ Let me 
tell you the story, it’s pathetic in its way. A year 
ago this girl, Nora Walsh, came out here from 
Ireland to visit her uncle, John Fitzpatrick. 
Aleck and she met. It was a case of love at first 
sight, and they were mutually and desperately 
smitten. Her people are respectable well-to-do 
farmers back in the old country, and very particu- 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


357 


lar about their daughter. Of course John in duty 
bound kept them posted, and for awhile they 
would not hear to her settling down so far away 
with a stranger ; wanted her to come right home. 
The young couple were nearly broken-hearted. 
At last the priest took it up, wrote the father, 
gave Aleck an excellent character and advised 
them to give consent. Between his reverence, 
the uncle and the girl, the old folks gave in on 
certain conditions. Before the wedding should 
take place Aleck had to have a home of his own, 
furnished suitably, and free of debt. This was 
not a hard condition. He had made a little stake 
in a lease some time before, was a saving boy, and 
the money or most of it was ready. He bought a 
couple of lots with a cottage of three or four 
rooms on it, agreeing to pay for it in three install- 
ments. The first two are paid, the next is due 
in a month and he hasn’t the money to meet it, 
and worst of all, no prospect of being able to earn 
or borrow it. The poor devil had three hun- 
dred dollars in the bank. That was for the furni- 
ture and to give them a good send-off. He can’t 
get his hands on that, so the outlook is pretty 
blue.” 

Well I should say it was,” I exclaimed. '‘No 
wonder the poor fellow looks down in the mouth. 
To have the cup so close as all that and then 
have it knocked down, must be hard to bear.” 


358 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“Her uncle,” continued John, “is in the same 
boat. He has his family to take care of and 
nothing to do it with. He has property around 
here, but the value is gone. He couldn’t raise a 
dollar on it to-day, and ten days ago he thought 
he was well off — and he was. It looks as if Nora 
would have to go back to the old country and 
wait for Aleck to make a new deal.” 

“ Won’t she marry him now } ” I asked. 

“ Oh, she’d marry him quick enough they say, 
but her Uncle insists that her parents must know 
just how matters stand before another step is 
taken. Nora’s a good conscientious girl, has 
been brought up to obey her parents, and Daw- 
son says if they object to the marriage and want 
her home, she’ll obey orders and go if it breaks 
her heart. Aleck of course takes the gloomiest 
view of the matter, is afraid he’ll lose his girl.” 

“ He mustn’t feel that way,” I said hopefully. 
“ He’s young yet, and even if she goes back to 
Ireland he can go after her bye and bye when he’s 
got another home ready.” 

“ It’s easy to talk, Phil,” exclaimed Dawson, 
“but it’s not an easy thing for young hearts in 
love with each other to put off their mating sea- 
son indefinitely,, especially when they’ve been fix- 
ing up their nest. Another thing, it won’t be an 
easy matter to get such a start again. Aleck’s a 
good steady boy, not a lazy bone in his body, but 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


359 


he has no trade, and outside of mining don’t 
know anything about work, and if he did there’s 
no work to be had.” 

That’s so,” John acknowledged. **As long as 
silver is legislated against, its old time value will 
be destroyed and it won’t pay to mine. Most of 
the mines will shut down, or reduce their force 
and wages. The bachelors of the Rockies will 
have to remain bachelors. Marriage will be a 
luxury they can’t afford, for men out West will 
never ask a woman to share a life that’s only a 
ceaseless scramble for existence.” 

Just then a ringing volley of cheers went up 
from the interested lookers-on. “We missed 
that,” said John, rising to his feet. “What’s up, I 
wonder V 

Hats were flying in the air, men were excitedly 
shaking hands, and evidently a crisis of some 
kind had been reached. Suddenly as we looked 
and listened, trying to get the hang of things, 
from their hiding place in the hills burst the 
strains of the Ridge band, playing “ See, the Con- 
quering Hero Comes.” They had stolen down 
unawares as a surprise. 

“ I bet the Ridge boys have won,” exclaimed 
John. “They’re carrying some of them shoulder 
high. That’s big Ed Jones, the pitcher, with the 
black and white uniform.” So it proved. 

A general good social time followed, the band 


360 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


playing familiar airs as we talked and visited. 
With considerable surprise I noticed John. 
Usually the quietest, most reserved of men in 
company, waiting for others to come to him, 
to-day he was the opposite. From group to 
group he strolled, a cheery word or jest on his lip 
for every one. Faces brightened while he stayed, 
and laughter followed his departure. I had never 
seen him in this role and I wondered. Bye and 
bye over the rocks floated the familiar air, “Flome 
Again,” and to the rhythm of the suggestive notes, 
mingled with the running accompaniment of the 
rushing water, we retraced our steps homeward. 
Slowly out of inflnite space dropped the shadow 
of evening, and once more over the landlocked 
basin brooded the spirit of silence and solitude. 
The Fourth of July was past. 

Supper over, John suggested a stroll along the 
main street. That was the miners’ club-house, 
this was Fourth of July night, naturally you would 
not expect a dress parade. Perhaps the possi- 
bilities as a quarry for character study were more 
apparent than any other. It was an assembly of 
men, — of men in the rough, and as a rule not pro- 
hibitionists. Neither better nor worse were 
they than their aristocratic brothers of the same 
type elsewhere, the main difference probably 
being that in more select circles and club-houses 
the glorious celebrations occur oftener and behind 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


361 


closed doors, the janitor alone being fully ac- 
quainted with the open secrets there. In both 
cases men were spending the evening at their 
club. The principles at work and the amuse- 
ments were similar. The bar, the billiard table 
and cards were the attractions in both. The stars, 
and the great all-seeing Eye back of the stars, 
looked down through roofless corridors in rock- 
bound canons and through frescoed ceilings in 
stately club-houses on the same hearts and very 
much the same actions. Beneath millionaire and 
miner alike swept the noiseless yet mighty stream 
of time, bearing both indiscriminately to the shores 
of eternity and the final settlement there. Groups 
of peaceable citizens lounged at the street corners 
chatting quietly enough, but from behind the 
screens of saloon doors came a confused murmur 
of voices like the buzz of many bees. The clink 
of glasses, meaningless profanity, wild guffaws of 
laughter, sound but not sense, snatches of musical 
melody, bellowing like the roar of wild animals, 
mingled with the summer breeze and registered 
themselves in God’s great phonograph. Myste- 
rious writing on the viewless air, invisible to us, 
yet stamped in deathless vibrations. Who can 
decipher its awful significance 1 We register our- 
selves, our character each time we speak, and in 
a writing that can never be blotted out. 

“ Hallo, sorr,” shouted a familiar voice in my 


362 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


ear. Turning I found myself face to face with 
Mike Clifford. 

“ Hallo, Mike, when did you come up ? ” I 
asked. 

“Been up all day, sorr, Oim thinkin’ its toime 
I was makin’ thracks for home. OiVe been con- 
sumed wid an outrageous thurst iver since Oi come 
up, an’ it’s gittin’ worse instid av betther on me. 
O’im misdoubtin’ it’ll git me into big throuble.” 

“Your head’s level now, Mike,” John said, 
“you’d better start before it does.” 

“Biddy tould me whin I lift in the mornin’,” he 
went on, “if Oi didn’t come home loike a gintle- 
man she’d make me loife a basted purgathory for 
a week av Sundays ; an’ Oi told her if Oi came 
home loike a gintleman Oi’d be brought home in 
a carridge.” 

“You’re not far off the straight now,” John 
said, laughing, “ and if you don’t take any more 
aboard I guess Bridget won’t say anything.” 

“That’s so,” retorted Mike, proudly, “ Oi’m only 
dacently dhrunk now, but if I shtay longer Oi’ll 
make a baste of mesilf, let alone bein’ distressingly 
sick in the mornin’ wid me foolishness.” 

Everywhere the irrepressible youngster and his 
sputtering crackers kept up an endless noise. 
Just at our feet a stock company of boys set fire 
to a whole arsenal with the usual effect. 

“Hear to that, now, will ye,” growled. Mike, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


363 


“thim blasted fire divils have been spit, spittin' 
loike Kilkinney cats the whole blessed day. 
They’ve got more loives than a rigiment av cats. 
They’ve been dyin’ all day, and there are more 
av thim now than iver. Look at that ramrod av 
a fellow cornin’ down the shtrate now,” he con- 
tinued, “liftin’ his fate loike a Shanghai rhooster. 
If he didn’t look so shtraight forninst him an’ 
shtep so high, ye wouldn’t mishthrust there was 
anything the matter.” 

“That’s Sandy McGregor,” explained Dawson, 
“the crater aye gets an extra twist of Hieland 
dignity on when he’s been drinkin’. What’s 
the matter wi’ ye the night, Sandy,” he sang out 
as he was passing, “that ye’re sae uppish.” 
Sandy came to a sudden stop, almost losing. his 
balance by so doing. He looked at us solemnly 
for a moment till recognition penetrated the fogs 
of Scotch whiskey, then held out his hand with 
grave deliberation. “Nothin’ the matter wi’ me, 
gentlemen, I’m verra glad to see you. I was just 
thinkin’ about auld times, times when I was a 
laddie an’ gaed fushin’ in the Hielan’ ruvvers wi’ 
my father.” 

“What made you think of them.?” asked 
Dawson. 

“ Come back here wi’ me an’ I’ll show you.” 

“No, thank you, Sandy, not to-night,” responded 
John decidedly, suspecting the source of the in- 


364 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


spiration, “we don’t have time, we’ve got to get 
home.” 

“Ye dinna ken what ye’re missin’. They’ve 
got some o’ the rale auld Glenlivet at Nelson’s, 
’ll mak’ yer mouth water twenty yards aff to 
smell ’t.” 

“ Fine, is it } ” asked Dawson. 

“Man,” he answered earnestly, “whin I was 
drinkin’ ’t, I wished my'throat would be half a 
mile long so I cud taste it a’ the way down. 
That taste carried me back to the hills o’ .auld 
Scotland. I cud see the daisies an’ the heather, the 
yellow brown ruvvers, an’ the black holes whaur 
the Saumont lay, aye an’ smell the verra reek o’ 
the peat. I cam’ near gien’ these dried up 
Yankees a sample of the slogan o’ my clan to 
wauken them up on the strength o’ ’t.” 

“Better not,” suggested John, “better not, 
they might think the Indians were coming 
back.” 

Bidding them good-night we strolled leisurely 
along to the livery stable for the team, John stop- 
ping with more than one group of downcast 
looking men to say a few words of cheery en- 
couragement. His hopeful, patient spirit was 
contagious, and I noticed faces brighten at the 
brave, kindly words. At the end of town we 
passed Mike Clifford and Sandy McGregor in 
earnest conference. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


365 


Oi’m jist startin’ fer home,” Mike sung out, 
waving his hand as we whirled past. 

“That’s right,” answered John, waving back, 
“it’s time we were all heading that way.” 

Poor Mike, however, did not head that way 
quite so soon as he intended. The thought of 
the old Glenlivet, possibly Sandy’s eloquence on 
the subject, proved too much for his powers of 
resistance and he returned. Sandy did give the 
astonished listeners a sample of the slogan. Mike 
passed some derogatory remarks, not only about 
his famous war-cry, but about his still more 
famous ancestors, which Sandy resented as only 
a Highlander would. Words led to blows, and 
both were landed in the “cooler” where they 
spent the night and part of the next day. On 
payment of the fines they were released without 
further punishment, but from my knowledge of 
Bridget, I’ve no doubt she kept her word and 
made Mike’s life a “basted purgathory for a long 
wake av Sundays.” 

The night of the Fourth set in a blaze of glory 
for the little folks. With the enthusiasm of a 
boy John entered into the spirit of the hour, 
tacking pin-wheels, setting off Roman candles, 
sky-rockets, etc., with tireless patience. Not 
until the last golden star had shot skyward and 
burst in a rain of red, green and blue light before 
the eyes of the delighted children, did he give up. 


366 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


After every one had gone to bed I found him 
sitting in the parlor. There was a spiritless droop 
about the large frame the sight of which went to 
my heart. 

“ Tired, John } ” I asked. 

^‘Yes, I’m tired,” he said quietly. 

“No wonder; you’ve been the life of every- 
thing to-day. Kept things moving and kept us all 
up.” 

“ Oh I don’t know about that. Guess you’d 
get along all right without me.” 

“ You did more to cheer the boys up than any- 
body else,” I insisted. 

“I’m glad of that. They need encouraging 
words, sure. I only wish I could do them a more 
lasting good.” 

“I never knew you could talk so well, John, I 
was glad to see you were so hopeful.” 

He turned his face towards me, and in a flash I 
understood it all. The mask, the brave mask had 
fallen. His face was haggard and set, the big 
eyes sunken, and lines of care and pain seemed 
furrowed in as by some heavy instrument. He 
had helped others. Alas ! who could help him } 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Wednesday morning when I came down stairs 
I was surprised to find John already gone. “What 
in the world made- him go to the mine to-day ? ” I 
asked. “ There’s nothing doing, the mills are not 
buying ore, and he might just as well have taken 
a holiday and stayed home the rest of the 
week.” 

“I wanted him to do that,” Mary answered, 
“ but I couldn’t coax him to remain. He said it 
was harder work hanging around home doing 
nothing than working hard at the mine, and that 
a holiday without a holiday spirit wouldn’t do him 
any good. Are you going to the Bonanza this 
morning ” 

“Yes, I must go. I’m expecting orders every 
day to shut down, so I must be on hand.” 

“ Oh, I hope they won’t do that,” Mary said. 
“ That would bring misery on so many hard- 
working, deserving families.” 

“ I’m afraid they’ll do it, though,” I answered. 
“For some time back it has hardly paid to run 
the mine, and under present conditions, with the 

367 


368 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


outlook what it is, the company will probably de- 
cide to close.” 

She sighed. The pressure of the general misery 
was beginning to tell even on her faith buoyed 
nature. 

As I rode up the canon that forenoon my 
thoughts followed John. The bitterest drop in 
his cup of disappointment was not personal, I 
knew, although that was bitter enough. To re- 
turn to the old tread -mill of existence just as life 
was opening out to possibilities of freedom and 
happiness, to take up the old burdens after drop- 
ping them for all time, as he had thought, and to 
take them up without even the uplifting power of 
hope to lighten the pressure, was a hard experience. 
Not a word of complaint had he uttered, but the 
disappointment would be none the less hard to bear. 
I could put myself in his place and realize his 
feelings. 

At the mine things were running as usual, yet 
an air of anxiety as palpable as the smoke-laden 
atmosphere of the drifts brooded everywhere. 
The fear of the mine shutting down was an ever 
present dread. That meant so much, and the 
faces of the men showed how fully they under- 
stood its meaning. Not until the next day was 
the suspense ended. Then a telegram came. 
As I had anticipated the mine was to be closed, 
the engines even to stop working. That meant 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


369 


letting the mine fill up with water. Nothing 
could have shown more conclusively the com- 
pany’s utter want of faith in the future of their 
property. From first to last they had sunk a mil- 
lion and a half in its purchase and development, 
and now voluntarily they abandoned it. 

The local effects of the fall in silver were seri- 
ous enough. A hundred men thrown out of 
employment meant a hundred families in want, 
meant suffering and privation to women and 
children, meant contraction in everything. This 
was the history of one mine in one canon. This 
was the inner circle, the outer embraced London 
and people of moderate means there who consti- 
tuted the company and had invested in mining 
property. Through legislation their silver prop- 
erty had been made valueless. Had any oligarchy 
the right to destroy other men’s property in order 
to double the value of their own ? Supposing the 
many should demonetize gold, how the “civilized” 
few would make the welkin ring with the story of 
their wrongs ! 

That night as the day-shift was coming out and 
the night-shift going in, I told them. They took 
the announcement silently, like men, but doubt- 
less in many a heart a bitter protest went up 
against the injustice that had made the closing 
necessary. They were not dumb driven cattle, 
incapable of reasoning why, they could feel a 


370 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


wrong, think over it, and doubtless in time 
resent it. 

“Shall we go ’ome now, sir.?” asked Frank 
Brown, the night foreman. 

“No, go ahead, Frank,” I answered, “we’ll run 
the mine up to Saturday afternoon. There will be 
some kind of market for silver bye and bye, and 
there’s enough ore to square up everything. If 
the boys will wait till it can be run I’ll be respon- 
sible for the pay.” 

Saturday afternoon came at last. I watched 
the final procession file slowly out of the cavern- 
ous opening in the hill-side and strike out for 
home. Many of the men had worked in that mine 
for years, and it seemed to them like parting from 
an old friend to leave it for good. In addition the 
prospect was not encouraging. In this camp no 
work was to be had, and nearly all owned homes 
in it and had large families. These quiet, respect- 
able householders would have to turn tramps, and 
knock around the States like shiftless loafers in 
search of work. The question of the hour was, 
“ Where shall we go .? ” Two weeks before many 
of them were as independent as any lord, and as 
happy. They were worth, including their home- 
stead, from ^500 to ^3000, and their credit was 
good. Now all was gone, because the credit of 
the twin metal of the money world was destroyed, 
and their homes were valueless. If you cannot 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


371 


sell your home and cannot live in it, what good is 
it to you ? 

As the last man disappeared around a bend in 
the road I entered the tunnel. Harry Armstrong, 
the engineer, had not come out, and I wondered 
what was the matter. In the hollowed-out cham- 
ber, the engine-room, at the far end he was still 
sitting. 

“ What’s the matter, Harry } ” I asked. 

Nothing, sir, only I hate to leave the old 
engine. I’ve taken care of her for ten years, had 
a kind of pride in keeping things shining. I hate 
to think of her being neglected and rust settling 
all over. It seems as if she’d kind o’ miss me,” 
he went on, musingly. “We’ve spent so many 
days and nights together, just her an’ me alone in 
the dark, she seems human. I’ve often felt if I 
fell among the wheels she wouldn’t hurt me, but 
would just stop.” 

“You never tried the experiment, though, did 
you ” I asked laughing. 

“Naw,” he retorted. “She’s like the rest o’ 
the women — you can’t trust her. So long’s 
you’re drivin’ them it’s all right, but God help ye 
if ye lose control an’ they drive you ! I’m an old 
fool, Mr. Marston, but it makes me feel queer to 
see her standing there with the breath out of her.” 

There was indeed something pathetic, even 
solemn, in the spectacle of that large plant of 


372 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


machinery standing motionless, paralyzed in the 
midst of its useful mission. Doubtless the many 
human interests involved in the stilling of that 
mighty heart invested it with this mysterious 
element of sadness. 

Resting one hand on a large wheel that shone 
like silver under the flickering light, Harry ran 
his eye deliberately over the engine, then without 
a word turned slowly away and disappeared down 
the tunnel. Blowing the lamps out I followed, 
for the first time locking the doors and taking out 
the keys. 

It was not yet late, and obeying an impulse I 
rode still further up the canon in search of John. 
His cabin stood about a mile beyond, not a stone’s 
throw from the road close to his own mine. As I 
came opposite I could see the door was open. 
Evidently he had not started for home. What a 
lonely, desolate looking place it was, a wilderness 
of gray bowlders stretching everywhere, sombre 
firs and tufts of many hued flowers alone softening 
their dreary nakedness, — the one-roomed cabin 
and mine the only human landmarks. 

Here for long years gentle-hearted, home-loving 
John Howard had lived and labored. Six days 
out of every week it had been his abiding place. 
I found him inside now, sitting beside the stove, 
just as he had come out of the mine. The usual 
kindly greeting met me on the threshold. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


373 


** What brought you up this afternoon ? ” he 
asked. 

** Nothing particular,” I answered, “just thought 
I’d come up and then we’d go home together. 
What in the world have you got a fire for 
such a sweltering day as this ^ I’m nearly 
melted.” 

“I am wet, that’s why,” he said. “The shaft 
leaks like a sieve in places, and I got chilled, be- 
sides I have to dry my clothes to be ready for 
next Monday.” 

“That’s where you get your rheumatism,” I 
exclaimed. “Let’s quit here, John, the fates are 
against you. Let’s try our luck in some other 
camp. I’m out of a job, we might as well make a 
new deal.” 

He shook his head. “ Can’t quit the old ship 
yet, Philip. I’ve got to wait till I can sell what 
ore is out. This utter stagnation can’t last 
always, and when other things move maybe I 
can. There’s some debts to pay, I couldn’t leave 
till they’re settled anyhow. So the Bonanza’s 
shut down, eh ? That’s bad for the Ridge 
folks.” 

“It is that,” I answered. “They feel blue. 
I’m awfully sorry for the married folks.” 

“We in this canon don’t have to wait till we’re 
dead,” John added humorously, “to illustrate the 
truth of Job’s words ; we brought nothing into 


374 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing 
out.” 

“Look here,” I retorted, “if you don’t hurry 
up and get into dry clothes you’ll know more 
about that trip than you want to.” 

While John was changing I looked around. 
The walls of the ten by twelve cabin were a 
library. From top to bottom they were papered 
with clippings from scientific magazines, illus- 
trated weeklies and newspapers. Near the win- 
dow were two shelves of well-worn books, evi- 
dently old friends, and a big, easy chair. Poor 
enough surroundings, yet they could not detract 
from the noble manhood of the inmate. A palace 
could not have added to that, a hovel could not 
take from it. The God-given greatness of a good 
man, what can compare with it } Such greatness 
is not dependent on a tailor’s skill, an architect’s 
genius, or even upon position in society. It is 
great to thoughtful eyes wherever found, — in life, 
in death, and will be great throughout eternity, 
when the tawdry tinsel of earthly fashions and 
accomplishments has shrivelled into nothingness. 
A Koh-i-noor is independent of its setting to 
those who can appreciate its value. By the power 
of its own beauty it concentrates the gaze of 
every beholder ; so does a noble character in 
man or in woman. If we fail to see the glory in 
either case it is probably from the same cause, — 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


375 


ignorance or blindness. It is, however, easier to 
learn to appreciate the brilliancy of a diamond or 
the details of a walking fashion-plate, than the 
beauty of a character unless dressed a la mode^ 
housed sumptuously, and entertaining lavishly and 
exclusively. 

Sunday evening some special celebration 
occurred in the Presbyterian church. Mrs. 
Howard, Marian and Harry decided to go, Mar- 
jorie was asleep up stairs, so John and I were left 
to entertain each other in the usual man-fashion. 
All evening I had noticed he was singularly 
absent minded, as if revolving serious matters 
in that quiet, practical brain of his. At last, 
drawing a letter from his pocket, he handed it 
to me with the simple remark: “Read that.’* A 
glance at the handwriting revealed the writer, 
Charlie Heywood ; the contents were not hard 
to imagine. 

“ Do you want me to read this ” I asked, my own 
feelings being very decidedly opposed to the task. 

“Yes, I do,” he said, with some surprise at 
my evident reluctance. 

It was not long. 


“Dear Mr. Howard: — 

“ Considering the subject of this letter, it may seem strange that I 
write instead of addressing you personally. My excuse is that it 
seems easier to express my thoughts on paper than it would be to 
do so in an interview. I know you do not like me. I know also, 


376 


THE STOR V OF A CANON. 


however, that you are a just man, and will not allow prejudice 
to influence you in an affair of such vital importance as the one 
which I now submit for your consideration. As you already know, 
I love your daughter, and I want your sanction to our engage- 
ment. I have spoken to Marian and she has referred me to you. 
Father and mother are perfectly satisfied with my choice. Father 
bids me say that he will see that I am in position to take good 
care of a wife. He has told me what he will do, but of that we 
can talk later. We are sure you will be satisfied with the arrange- 
ments. Marian has always been my good angel, and with her be- 
side me I can never go far wrong; without her I don’t know what 
might happen. 

“ Hoping to have an early and favorable answer, 

I remain. 

Yours sincerely, 

Charles Heywood.” 

“ P. S. I expect to go East, soon, and would like to have an 
understanding before leaving.” 

“Well,” exclaimed John, as I finished reading, 
“what do you think of that ” 

“ It’s a good, straightforward letter,” I an- 
swered evasively. “ I am not surprised at the 
contents, are you } ” 

“ Phil,” he said, bending forward and looking me 
keenly in the face. “ Be honest. Do you think 
Charlie Heywood is worthy of a girl like Marian ? 
Is he even capable of appreciating her.?” 

“ In the highest sense, no,” was my reply. 
“Yet as the world judges it seems a suitable 
match. They’ll make an exceptionally fine-look- 
ing couple. Old Heywood’s wealthy, and so far 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


377 


as material well-being goes I don’t believe 
Marian could do any better.” 

That’s not the main point by any means,” he 
interrupted, warmly. “ Will he make her happy ? 
In her future life will he be a help or a 
hindrance ^ ” 

I know of nothing against Charlie’s moral 
character,” I answered. 

“ Do you know anything in favor of it ” be 
asked, searchingly. Do you even know whether 
he’s got any ? ” 

*‘No, I do not. Charlie is an unknown quan 
tity to me. There’s no saying what he may 
develop into.” 

^‘That’s just it, Phil, he’s an unknown quan- 
tity, and yet I don’t know anything tangible 
against the boy. He’s not my kind of man, never 
will be. I don’t feel he’s a husband for Marian, and 
yet I can’t give you a good reason for so thinking. 
Would to God he were either better or worse.” 

“ It’s a hard matter for you to decide,” I said. 
“ What do you think you’ll do about it } ” 

“ I have already done,” was the quiet answer. 
‘^Ah.?” 

“Yes,” he went on, “I got that letter last 
night, talked it over with Mary, and thought it 
over nearly all night. This afternoon I handed it 
to Marian and had a talk with her. I couldn’t 
make her out, though. She’s as reticent as — ” 


378 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Her father under similar circumstances,” I 
interrupted. 

*^Yes, I guess we’re cut off the same piece,” he 
acknowledged. “ I told her exactly how I felt 
about Charlie — that I didn’t believe he was the 
right man for her, their whole mental and moral 
make-up was too dissimilar, and yet if she loved 
him I would not feel warranted in refusing my 
consent. The only stipulation I made was that 
the engagement should be for a year. 

How did she take your criticism of Charlie ? ” 
I asked. 

“Very kindly. She seemed to realize that what- 
ever I said was for her good, and that I meant to 
be just. She is perfectly willing to wait a year, 
indeed wishes to do so. I reminded her that she 
could not choose her father or mother, nor any of 
her relatives, they were chosen for her before she 
was born, but she could choose her husband and 
all the future relations to grow out of that ; that 
the choice of a husband was perhaps the most 
serious decision of her life ; that its consequences 
would reach not only through time, but eternity, 
and that the responsibility for others yet to come 
would rest upon her. Marian is a good conscien- 
tious girl, and that thought seemed to take root.” 

“ Does Charlie know of your decision yet } ” 

“ I wrote him this evening, he’ll get the letter 
to-morrow sometime.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


379 


The sound of the returning church-goers stopped 
further conversation. As they entered the room 
I noticed Marian's eyes looking questioningly at 
us both, while the pink of her cheeks deepened 
perceptibly. A few moments' conversation took 
place, and then John rose. 

Are you going to the mine to-morrow } ” 
asked his wife. 

“ Y es, I may as well be there trying to do some- 
thing as at home doing nothing." “I — " 

“I suppose you, Philip," she broke in, ‘^will be 
a gentleman of leisure.” 

“By no means, Mary, there’s lots of things to look 
after. I expect to take the morning train to Den- 
ver and be gone all week, attending to business." 

“ I’m going to have a busy week, too," she said. 

“ House-cleaning V I suggested. 

“House-cleaning," she retorted, indignantly, 
“in July.? Didn’t you know this house was 
cleaned from top to bottom only two months ago .? 
What a compliment to my house-keeping." 

“That’s just what it is," I answered. “Your 
house always looks so nice. It never seems to 
want cleaning." 

“ I am going to clothes-cleaning to-morrow," she 
resumed. “With Marian’s help I am going to 
do the washing and ironing." 

“What for," inquired John, stopping suddenly 
on his way to the door. 


380 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*‘To economize,” she answered, smiling. ‘‘I 
thought so long as times were so awfully dull, and 
money so scarce, it was my duty.” Noticing 
John’s grave look she went on, “I am quite able 
to do it. Haven’t felt so strong for years.” 

Mary’s increase of strength always happening 
miraculously when the demand for it came, I was 
not surprised at the skeptical smile flitting across 
John’s face. 

It’s nice weather,” she continued, “and with 
Marian’s help the washing will be nothing. We’ll 
never feel it.” 

“How about Mrs. Murphy.!^” inquired John. 
“ Don’t you think she’ll feel the want of it ? ” 

Mary said nothing, but looked at her husband in 
some surprise. 

“Don’t economize in that way, Mary,” he said 
earnestly. “ It would not be right. Mrs. Murphy 
is a widow with two or three children dependent 
on her. If the times are hard for us, they’re 
harder for her. Now is a poor time to retrench in 
a direction like that, when perhaps as a result 
actual suffering would be caused.” 

“ I thought we had to economize in every pos- 
sible way,” Mary said. 

“So we have,” he answered sadly, “and yet 
there is a choice in the things we have to econo- 
mize in. Let the human interests be cared for as 
long as possible.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Next morning I left early, and for more than a 
week heard nothing of the folks at “Rest-A- 
While.” The evening of my return, as we sat on 
the porch chatting, Mrs. Howard voluntarily 
referred to the subject nearest my heart. 

“ Did you notice Charlie Heywood on the down 
train this afternoon,” she inquired, “as you were 
coming up ? ” 

“No, I didn’t see him.” 

“ He left to-day for Chicago,” she continued. 

“I suppose congratulations are in order then?” 

“I don’t know whether they are or not,” she 
replied, thoughtfully. “So far no satisfactory 
understanding has been reached.” 

“You surprise me,” I said. “Judging by Char- 
lie’s letter to John I supposed that was reached 
before he wrote.” 

“ So the letter implied, but I had my doubts ; I 
felt satisfied if Marian had decided she would 
make a confidant of her mother as she always has. 
I said nothing, however, thought it was just as well 
to let matters take their course. The truth is, 

381 


382 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Marian is not sure of her own mind, and Charlie is 
trying to force her to a decision. She is fond of 
him, he knows that, and thinks if he could coax 
her into an engagement his victory would be won, 
that she would never go back on a promise.” 

“ Have you had any talk with her ? ” I asked. 

“Not till last night.” 

“You are not like many mothers, Mary,” I said ; 
“ you don’t force advice even on your own chil- 
dren, unless they ask it.” 

“You are mistaken about that, Philip, I have 
been forcing my advice on my children ever since 
they were babies. The little souls were as naked 
as the little bodies when they came to me, and all 
these years I’ve been getting in my work trying 
to clothe the inner nature as well as the outer. If 
you don’t lay foundations, instill principles all 
through the preparatory stages of a child’s life, the 
chances are that outside words of advice will do 
but little good at crucial moments, — perhaps only 
irritate. You can’t expect to do in an hour what 
ought to have been the work of a life-time.” 

“ Do I understand you to say there is no engage- 
ment between Marian and Charlie ” I inquired. 

“ There is not. Charlie was up yesterday after- 
noon, and involuntarily I was compelled to be a 
listener to their last interview. After dinner I lay 
down in the little bed-room back of the parlor and 
fell alseep. The sound of voices in the next room 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


383 


woke me. The door between was ajar, but I sup- 
pose the curtain on the other side prevented their 
noticing it. Marian knew where I was, so it did 
riot seem necessary to remind her of my presence, 
especially as I would have to go through the parlor 
to do it. Charlie was just saying, “Now, Marian, 
be reasonable. I went to Denver for the express 
purpose of selecting these, they are beauties, and 
I want you to choose the one you like best and let 
me put it on your finger before I leave. It will 
make me feel much happier, and it can’t do you 
any harm.” 

“ Oh, Charlie, why did you do that } ” she said 
earnestly, “ after all the talk we had Monday. I 
told you then I didn’t want you to get an engage- 
ment ring just yet. If I love anybody my love is 
the best kind of engagement ring.” 

you love anybody,” he interrupted, passion- 
ately, “ don’t you know whether you love me or 
not .? ” 

“ In the way which you mean, Charlie, I do not 
know. I have always told you that, and I cannot 
force my feelings. You know it was against my 
wishes you wrote to papa. It would have been 
wiser to wait.” 

“You are as cold as some beautiful statue,” he 
answered, “but the womanhood within is simply 
not awake, that’s all. You would love me if you’d 
only let yourself. If I could have you for my wife. 


384 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


it seems to me I would have the kingdom of heaven 
and the glory thereof. Why can’t you love me as 
I do you.?” 

‘‘I don’t know, Charlie, maybe I’m not capable 
of loving anybody that way.” 

“Yes you are. You’re too much of a woman 
not to. The trouble is, you’re a shy little Puritan, 
hold yourself too well in hand to be natural. Let 
me put one of these rings on your finger, and at 
the end of three months come back for my wife ; 
you’ll find out you’re as capable of love as I 
am.” 

“ Three months. Why, Charlie, you know papa 
wrote and told you he should insist on a year’s 
engagement, at least.” 

“A year, that’s out of the question, — there’s no 
sense in such a demand. If you’ll only be reason- 
able and engage yourself to me now, you can tease 
or coax your father into consenting to our marriage 
in three months.” 

“You are very much mistaken, Charlie. No 
amount of coaxing would make papa change his 
mind. He’s not that kind of a man, and anyway 
I should never ask him. I think a year’s engage- 
ment would be. none too long.” 

“What possible reason can there be for wait- 
ing in this case .? I’m no stranger. We know 
each other as well now as we ever will.” 

“ I’m not sure that we do,” she said gently, but 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


385 


firmly, *'and in such a serious matter we must not 
take any chances. To make a life-long mistake 
and not find it out until too late, would mean life- 
long misery for both.” 

** Not for me,” he answered confidently. “ I know 
you, and I will never change my opinion or love 
you less.” 

Suppose I should change mine about you,” 
was Marian’s reply, ^^and not be able to love you } 
That would be more serious for me, even, than 
losing your love. It would hurt more, because 
before the love went other things would have 
gone.” 

“ I am willing to take all chances on that line,” 
Charlie said, laughing ; “ only marry me, that’s all I 
ask. Once married it would be your duty to love 
me, and that would settle it ; besides, the marriage 
service commands a woman to take her husband 
* for better or worse,’ doesn’t it ” 

“Yes; there’s no law though commanding her 
to take her lover on those terms, is there } ” she 
retorted, archly. 

He laughed heartily. “ There’s no trapping you. 
Well, let’s stop arguing and look at these rings. 
If they don’t convert you to my way of thinking 
you’re no true woman.” 

That speech nearly settled the question, for 
Marian resented it so keenly that for a time she 
refused to even look at the jewelry. Finally he 


I 


386 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


succeeded in making his peace, and the rings were 
put on exhibition. 

“ Did you ever see anything so beautiful in all 
your life ” he exclaimed. 

*‘In the line of stones, no,” was the demure 
reply, adding after a moment’s pause, “they are 
certainly lovely.” Apparently her girlish enthu- 
siasm grew as she looked, for her expressions of 
admiration became extravagant enough to suit even 
Charlie. 

“ I knew you would appreciate them,” he said. 
“Just see how this large diamond flashes in the 
sunlight. That one stone cost ” 

“ Please don’t tell me what it cost,” she begged. 

“ Why not ” he asked in a surprised tone. 

“ Because somehow it seems to belittle it; makes 
it common, takes away its beauty and makes it a 
piece of merchandise like coal or groceries. I 
hate to have the idea of dollars and cents asso- 
ciated with everything, especially beautiful things. 
I enjoy their beauty so much more if the cost is 
not labelled all over it. I cannot explain my 
feelings.” 

“ What a queer girl you are,” he said, in a puz- 
zled tone. “ Most people value things because of 
their cost.” 

“ Last winter, you know,” Marian went on, “ I 
spent a week with the Harrises in Denver. One 
evening we were all going to a party and Mr. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


387 


Harris sent up a box of beautiful roses for us girls. 
I thought they were the most beautiful flowers I 
had ever seen, just went wild over them. Sud- 
denly Emma picked one up and said, ‘ I shouldn’t 
wonder if that rose cost a dollar, or over.’ I don’t 
know why that idea of cost changed my whole 
feelings, but it did. The roses seemed to lose all 
meaning, all their delicate spirit, and were beauti- 
ful only as a silk dress or a piece of lace is. I’ve 
never seen one of those big, over-fed looking buds 
since without thinking how much it cost. Now 
when I go out among the rocks and come on some 
dainty wild flower, the feeling is different. I 
could almost cry over its exquisite petals and 
soft baby face. They remind me of nothing but 
themselves, and fill one with thoughts too deep for 
words. One seems like the sunset clouds God 
made for inspiration, the other man made and for 
the market.” 

To myself I smiled, for I knew her words must 
have been Greek to Charlie and I could imagine 
his expression. 

“ What extraordinary ideas for a young girl,” he 
said. “You’ve lived too long in the mountains 
without companions of your own age, that’s what 
ails you. It’s high time you were out of them. 
What you need is society and a few years’ life in 
the world. That would cure all these sentimental 
thoughts. They’re not natural.” 


388 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“They are perfectly natural to me,” she an- 
swered warmly, “ and I don’t believe I want them 
cured. Oh, Charlie, don’t you feel how different 
we are, how unsuited to go through life together ? 
You don’t even understand me, you seem to think 
I can put on or off my thoughts and deepest feel- 
ings as I could a dress to suit different places. I 
could never do that, they are not put on, but are 
the outgrowth of me, — the real inner me. I 
could not change myself, would not try, and after 
a little, having no comprehension or sympathy 
with my motives and aims, you would grow im- 
patient. You are very arbitrary you know.” 

“We’ve had no difficulty in getting along so 
far,” he suggested. “For ten years we’ve been 
the best kind of companions. Why can’t we be 
so still ? ” 

“I have thought of all that,” she answered 
slowly, “and the remembrance of the many happy 
days spent together has made me hesitate as I 
have. Yet after all that was but a school-boy and 
girl friendship, our tastes were different even 
then, only we did not notice it. Whenever you 
came up I entered into your world, was interested 
in all your affairs, hut you never entered into mine. 
We are older now, would naturally expect more 
from each other. Our standards are very differ- 
ent, you might want me to shape my life accord- 
ing to your notions, and I mightn’t feel I could.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


389 


“ If we were married,” he said, the new rela- 
tionship would make it easy for you to change 
your opinions to please your husband. That’s 
always the way with true women.” 

“ If it were only a matter of taste, and not of 
principle,” she agreed, “it might be so, and if the 
love was great enough, — but oh, Charlie, in our 
case there are too many ifs. For your own sake 
as well as mine I think we had better remain only 
friends.” 

“The ifs are of your manufacturing, Marian,” 
he said, “ I don’t have any. With so many doubts 
you’ll never marry any one.” 

“ Maybe not,” she answered, “ so long as there 
is any doubt in my own mind I surely never 
shall.” 

“ And you won’t allow me to put one of those 
rings on your finger ? ” he asked. 

“ No, Charlie, I cannot.” 

“Don’t you know,” he urged, “it would be the 
greatest safeguard in the world for me to have 
it there ? The remembrance of our engagement, 
of your sweet, pure face would keep me straight ; 
the want of it may send me to the devil. 
Aren’t you afraid of the responsibility ? ” 

“The responsibility will not rest on me,” she 
answered calmly ; “ if you are weak enough to do 
such a thing it will be sufficient evidence that 
you are not a safe man for any girl to marry. The 

i 


390 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


man I marry must be good from principle, because 
he loves goodness, not simply because he loves 
me.” 

If I could only think of you with that ring on 
your finger,” he pleaded, “ I couldn’t help being 
good. Temptations would lose their power.” 

“ Can’t you think of me without the ring } ” 

“ Not in the same way.” After a moment’s 
pause, he went on : “ Perhaps my absence will do 
more for me than my presence. Maybe you’ll 
miss me more than you think for, find out you 
can’t get along without me. If you do will you 
let me know ? ” 

“ Certainly,” she answered eagerly. “ We will 
correspond, of course, and may come nearer by be- 
ing separated.” 

“ God grant we may,” he said, and his voice 
broke. “ My future is in your hands.” 

Bidding her a passionate good-bye he left. In 
a few minutes she came to me. I was actually 
frightened at her appearance. She was perfectly 
colorless and her eyes had such a strange 
expression. I had just time to reach her before 
she reeled and fell into my arms ; on regaining her 
self-possession her first words were : “Oh mamma, 
mamma. I’m afraid I’ve done wrong. I wouldn’t 
let Charlie put a ring on, and he’s gone away feel- 
ing so hurt. He says his future is in my hands, 
and I believe it is. I know I can do more with 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


391 


him than anybody else. I do wish I had done as 
he wanted. I’ve been so selfish,” — and she burst 
into a fit of uncontrollable weeping. 

“ Do you love Charlie well enough to promise 
to marry him .<* ” I asked. 

“When I think of him I feel I do, when I 
think of myself I feel I don’t ; but I like him well 
enough to be willing to sacrifice my own feelings 
to make him happy. It would be selfish not to.” 

Had Charlie returned that evening she would 
have engaged herself to him, and that would have 
meant marriage, for Marian would never have 
gone back on her word. She even went so far as 
to beg me to send Harry with a note to him. 
Feeling that she was acting solely -from an unself- 
ish impulse, and that her reason and judgment 
were not controlling her, I persuaded her to wait 
till morning. All this forenoon she thought he 
would be up to bid us good-bye, so did not write. 
From nine o’clock till twelve she sat sewing by 
the parlor window. I knew she was watching for 
him, I knew also she had made up her mind to ac- 
cept the diamond ring and its consequences, but 
he never came. 

“ Were you glad or sorry ” I asked. 

“God alone knows how glad I was and am. 
Charlie could never make Marian happy. If she 
should marry him she will go through all her 
future years with a life long hunger at her heart. 


392 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


He is fond of her, admires the girlish beauty of 
form and face, her sweet, pure, noble nature, but 
he does not appreciate or even understand the 
best, the highest in her. In his family she would 
be as lonely as on a desert island, would either 
have to live her highest life alone or let it die. 
He would be proud of her always, she could never 
be proud of him, unless of his physical appear- 
ance, and that wouldn’t satisfy long.” 

“ Don’t you think there’s a possibility of their 
becoming engaged yet I asked. 

“Yes, I do. There’s more danger now than 
ever. She feels sorry for him, and the idea of 
self-sacrifice has taken hold of her imagination, 
but she’s in God’s hands. Nothing can ever do 
her any real injury. If she so wills hjer earthly 
life may be a sad one, but under any circum- 
stances it will be noble.” 


CHAPTER XXTX. 

Like a mighty stone hurled into the depths of a 
mountain lake had been the financial news of a 
month past. Week after week, as the beautiful 
summer days went past, was that shock felt in 
ever widening circles. Local effects were more 
painfully visible, and over the length and breadth 
of the land spread the agitation. The western 
wave broke at the feet of the Rockies, the eastern 
on the coral strand of India, and the vibrations of 
each spoke eloquently of human wrongs to Hin- 
doo and to American miner alike. 

In our canon as elsewhere the excitement 
deepened as the days went by, and in sentiment 
and condition the glen but repeated the history of 
many states and territories. Clouds of misfort- 
unes and impending disaster lay heavy on the 
horizon. Overhead the grayness of uncertainty 
shrouded everything, and even the glorious sun- 
shine and cloudless blue skies were powerless to 
brighten the moral gloom. No work was to be 
had, but little money was in circulation, and worst 
of all there was no assured future. Daily troupes 

393 


394 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


of discouraged miners went past in wagons or on 
jacks with camping outfits, bound for the parks 
and neighboring gulches in search of game and 
fish. Thank God, the time had not yet come 
when the high spirited laddies of the mountains 
could be shot down like dogs or imprisoned, as in 
some other countries they can be, for such pas- 
times. Will it ever come ? Importations of 
many relics of the Dark Ages are continually 
welcomed from over the sea. If the people of 
America do not look to it, who can tell what 
mediaeval customs may not gradually be trans- 
planted and rooted even under the shadow of the 
grand old flag of liberty and equality ? 

Bravely did the boys face their lot. After the 
first wild outbreak scarcely a murmur was to be 
heard. Cheerfully did they make the best of 
everything, or lack of everything, even trying to 
take the sting out of their enforced idleness by 
making a holiday of it ; but enforced holidays 
when one is not ready for them are questionable 
pleasures. 

The one rift in the clouds was the extra session 
of Congress called to meet on the seventh of 
August. To that break, with its star of hope 
shining against the leaden background of present 
misery, every eye turned. The Sherman law 
might be repealed, who cared ? It was but a 
meaningless make-shift at best, so far as the in- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


395 


terests of silver were concerned, more of a wolf 
in sheep’s clothing than anything else ; but some- 
thing better would take its place, and full of faith 
in the justice and humanity back of the powers at 
Washington, the miners scattered like grouse 
over the hills to pick up their daily food and to 
wait for opportunity to work. 

Oh, the latent heroism and cheery stoicism of 
those dark days. Many a man went hungry, liv- 
ing on one meal a day, and hiding the fact until 
accident revealed it. Over all Colorado rested the 
sadness of privation, of suffering, and if occasion- 
ally bitter, even foolish words broke from anxious 
hearts, who could wonder ? Many a prosperous 
writer, revelling in the good things of this life, 
from his luxurious sanctum in the far East grew 
merry and sarcastic over the wild, impoverished 
West and its utterances. Had he been large 
enough, humane enough to put himself in that 
West, in the miners’ place, his own words might 
have been less cruel. In the one case there 
was excuse for bitter words, in the other, none. 
A man from the safe shelter of his home may 
sit at ease and coolly criticise the wild, uncouth 
struggles of a drowning man in the ocean beyond. 
Is it a mark of superiority to do so ? Is he above 
or below the level of humanity to be capable of 
such action.? Yet in the fierce struggle of the 
poor miner for his home, his existence even, how 


396 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


each writhing brother was impaled on the relent- 
less pens of witty editors, and held up to a 
world’s ridicule. 

“ Alas for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun.” 

“Well,” said John, one Saturday evening, lay- 
ing down a New York paper, “ the whole country is 
certainly in an appalling business condition, but in 
the midst of all the uncertainty and alarming busi- 
ness complications, it must be a comfort to those 
eastern fellows to know beyond all doubt, not 
only the cause of, but the remedy for the dis- 
ease.” 

“What is it.^” I inquired. 

“According to the financial authorities. Wall 
Street and the bankers, the Sherman law is the 
cause of the many failures and wide-spread*misery, 
its repeal the certain remedy. These two facts 
are as settled apparently as the law of gravity, 
and daily are these two truths preached from the 
gold standard pulpits. The editorials vary, but 
the text and deductions are ever the same. No 
wonder if the public East become imbued with their 
teachings, and clamor loudly for the death of this 
hydra-headed monster, this devourer of prosperity. 
Like the Greek public of long ago, the people 
hear the utterances of the monied and Delphic 
oracle of to-day, but they do not realize that back 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


397 


of the utterances is the self-same money power^ seek- 
ing now as then to grow rich out of the credulity 
of the masses. The principle at work is the 
same.” 

“The universal distress is real enough,” I said, 
“ but it’s hardly reasonable to suppose the Sher- 
man law is responsible for such wide-spread ruin. 
The effect is out of all proportion to the cause.” 

“Yes,” John answered, “and the bad effects 
could not have been felt all over the world. 
Europe and Asia are feeling this depression as 
much as we are, and its influence could not reach 
them.’' 

“A few weeks’ waiting,” I suggested, “will 
show if the saddle’s on the right horse.” , 

“Yes,” was the reply, “but even if it’s proven 
beyond a doubt that it’s not, what good will it do } 
Some other horse will be brought to the front, and 
re-saddled for the further delusion of the masses. 
There’s a profound reason for this panic,” he went 
on, “it’s been made to order, and the men who 
made it don’t want the 4;ruth known. Capitalists, 
bankers, money-owners of all kinds do not want 
any legislation in the cause of silver.” 

“Why.?” Tasked. 

“To make more money for themselves, double 
the value of the gold they already possess. It’s 
simply a business investment, and for the creditor 
class a good one. Some people try to grow rich 


398 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


without working in one way, some in another. 
This is the financiers’ scheme.” 

“ Curious, isn’t it,” I remarked, how the 
stand-point changes the object looked at ^ Those 
wishing to bring this country to the single gold 
standard and destroy bimetallism, protest that 
Congress has no right to injure the United 
States by financial experiments opposed to the 
policy and practice of other civilized nations.” 

“Certainly not,” answered John, “and no one 
would have a right to ask them to. Bimetallism 
is no financial experiment, no untried theory. 
Those in favor of it ask nothing new. They but 
ask for the restoration of the old coinage laws that 
were in existence from the foundation of the Fed- 
eral Constitution to 1873. Under these laws this 
country grew great, and the people prosperous and 
happy. Never anywhere did they have such a 
good time as in the three-quarters of a century 
when silver could be coined into money. That 
was the nearest approach to the people’s earthly 
millennium the world has ever seen. The gold 
standard is the financial experiment, and those 
who wish to introduce it into this country are the 
experimenters.” 

“Why do you suppose so many of the eastern 
papers persistently treat of one side of this ques- 
tion only, and utterly ignore every other ? ” 

“Because they are owned and controlled by 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


399 


capitalists, and have to write in the interests of 
their proprietors, not in those of the people. 
Their object is to so shape public sentiment that 
their owners will reap the greatest benefit. A 
retained attorney has a right to his private 
opinion, but not to his public utterance.., oS-with 
a retained newspaper man ; in this case they are 
retained in the interests of banks and monied 
corporations, not in the interests of the people. 
Sometimes, too, banks have a hold on newspaper 
concerns, and loans are equivalent to thumb- 
screws. For twenty years certain classes have 
been steadily trying to create a feeling against 
silver. They wish to control the money of the 
world for their own interests, but under the bi- 
metallic system that would be impossible, hence 
their determination to get rid of it. Their last 
action has been to manufacture a panic, and then 
lay the blame on the Sherman law. Repeal that 
and prosperity will rush over the land like the 
overflowing Nile, they say. Retain it and mis- 
fortunes as numerous as Pharaoh’s plagues will 
overrun every section of it. This Sherman law is 
the last fort to be taken in the crusade against 
silver, and although in reality more of a gold than 
silver citadel, the fight will have to centralize 
round it.” 

** What do you mean by that } ” 

‘‘This Sherman law,” he said, “makes a com- 


400 


THE STORY OT A CANON. 


modity of silver, and puts the miners in the false, 
untenable position of compelling government to 
buy their products. That is unreasonable. The 
mining States have no more right to ask the gov- 
ernment to buy their silver, if it’s only a com- 
modity, than the farmers would have to insist on 
her buying their wheat. An eastern Republican 
was the author of that idea, not a western miner. 
And it has done more harm to the silver cause 
than anything else. That was a financial experi- 
ment, not founded on good sense either. What 
bimetallists want is a restoration of stolen rights, 
to make silver what it was from the time of Abra- 
ham the Patriarch to that of Abraham the 
President.” 

Just then Mrs. Howard joined us. Politics 
again,” she said, smiling. ‘‘Do you never get 
tired discussing these questions ^ ” 

“It would seem not,” John answered. “Sit 
down, mother. Where’s Marian } ” 

“ Gone up stairs to her own room to write.” 

“ Has she heard from Charlie, lately ? ” 

“Yes, she had a letter yesterday. They cor- 
respond regularly, you know.” 

“ Do you think that correspondence will lead to 
anything else ? ” he asked a little anxiously. 

“ Not now ; I think the danger point is past, but 
it was a close miss. Had Charlie come back the 
day after their last interview to bid her good-bye, 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


401 


or if he had written in a sorrowful spirit from Den- 
ver, they would be engaged now ; but he went away 
angry, didn’t write till he got to Chicago, and then 
in rather a flippant style. He told of the good times 
he was going to have, and didn’t refer to the past. 
Marian showed me the letter. I could read between 
the lines better than she could. It was written 
more in a spirit of bravado than anything else, and 
to hide his feelings. . He is really bitterly dis- 
appointed, feels it keenly, but is angry as well as 
hurt and don’t want her to know. His very avoid- 
ance of the subject nearest his heart shows this.” 

I suppose you have not tried to enlighten 
your daughter,” John said, jocularly. 

“ No, indeed. I’ve simply let her alone to draw 
her own conclusions.” 

“ And you don’t think she’s in love with him } ” 
I know she’s not ; that is, as a woman ought 
to be with the man she means to marry. The 
idea that Charlie needed her, that she could help 
him, would have made the marriage had she ever 
married him. Self-sacrifice has always been beauti- 
ful to Marian. I believe every true, noble woman 
is a missionary at heart, and the more of a woman 
the more of missionary.” 

“ Was that why you married me ? ” John asked. 

“ Of course, that’s why every woman marries, to 
convert the heathen and give them a higher 
standard.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


On the first of August the rainy season com- 
menced that year, and for a month the cloudless 
skies and sunshine of Colorado became a memory; 
the weather was as treacherous as a Scotch sum- 
mer. Driven from their camping ground by the 
wet and discomfort, the scattered miners returned 
to their homes and cabins in the more civilized 
canon. Party after party tramped past in the rain 
and mud, a bedraggled, sorry-looking crew, yet 
apparently full of courage and determination. 
Two or three weeks’ outing had browned then- 
faces, invigorated their frames, given them new 
strength, and above all new hope to wrestle afresh 
with the problems of life. Close contact with 
nature had simplified matters for them, and they 
had come back true to the first principles of every 
Coloradoan, to do their level best and make the 
most of whatever was in store. 

A burst of melody called us to the front door 
one afternoon. The rain had ceased, and the 
westering sun lighted up the clean-washed village 
at our feet with startling clearness, encircling * it 

402 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


403 


with a double rainbow of promise. Softly up the 
freshened mountain slopes a prismatic mist was 
stealing, as if the spirit of the storm were gather- 
ing up her floating many-hued draperies preparatory 
to vanishing in mystery from the still shrouded 
hill-tops. Just passing the door were a dozen or 
more miners in wagons returning from the park. 
Two had banjos and kept the chorus in tune and 
time. They looked like Gypsies, but Saxon grit 
and manly sense were as evident in every attitude 
and expression as was the tanned skins. Ragged, 
unshaven, dirty looking, America had still no rea- 
son to be ashamed of her sons, and Colorado 
had good reason to be proud of them. Penni- 
less, sleeping in the open air, seeking employ- 
ment, these mountain tramps had yet nobly 
vindicated their claim to manhood ; weighed in 
the balance of hard times they had not been 
found wanting. 

As we came on the porch a ringing cheer went 
up from a dozen brawny throats. In return we 
waved our hands and whatsoever our hands could 
lay hold of. Although strangers, the kinship of 
universal brotherhood was felt and acknowledged. 

'‘What’s the news.?” shouted one, “haven’t 
seen a paper for two weeks.” 

“ Congress is in session, and they say the mills 
will commence buying ore next week,” John 
called out. 


404 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“That’s bully. We’re ready to put our shoub 
ders to the wheel whenever she starts.” 

“ Had good luck boys ? ” 

“Yep, fishin’s first-rate, but got drowned out; 
gettin’ uneasy anyhow. Time we were at work 
again. Think there’s any show ? ” 

“Yes, times are brightening some,” John said, 
encouragingly. 

Waving a kindly good-bye dnd striking up 
“ Home, Sweet Home,” the party pushed on. A 
turn in the canon soon hid them from view, but 
for some time the sweet strains of the old memory 
laden song floated back, filling our eyes with tears 
and our hearts with pathos. Poor fellows ; their 
only heritage was hope, and although the run on 
that bank had been tremendous, it had not closed 
its doors. 

“Supper ready.?” John asked, turning to his 
wife. 

“Yes, almost.” 

“ Well, let’s get through. I want to go down 
town. Train will soon be in.” That was the event 
of the day. The newspapers came then, and no 
sooner was one read than a feverish anxiety pos- 
sessed every man for the next mail. As some one 
said, it reminded them of war times. Every eye 
was turned to Washington, although to us anxious 
on-lookers it did seem as if the actors there were 
only marking time, not advancing. 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


405 


Meanwhile the wants of to-day and to-morrow 
had to be met, and work was slowly resumed. 
Days’ pay men were not in demand, but the miners 
did not stand around idly in any market place wait- 
ing for some one to hire them. They hired them- 
selves unto themselves and started in on their own 
account, leasing. A superficial observer watching 
the army of men tramping daily over the hills might 
naturally have supposed the hard times to be a 
thing of the past. Nothing would have been 
further from the truth. Deeper knowledge would 
have shown that plenty of work did not necessarily 
mean plenty of money, nor any. A more industrious 
hive of busy bees could not have been found, but 
as Mary said : “For all the industry there wasn’t 
enough honey brought home for the day’s need, 
far less for the winter’s necessities.” 

“ When you think of the royalty to mine owners, 
charges of mill men, their own expenses and the 
low price of silver, it’s no wonder,” exclaimed John. 
“ Lots of the men you see passing here have taken 
down ore to have it run, and after paying all ex- 
penses have not had enough money left to pay for 
the powder and candles they used.” 

“And,” I suggested, “ what is true of this canon 
is true of all other silver sections. The history of 
one is the history of many.” 

“ Yes, but what can they do queried John. 

“ Haven’t mine owners reduced the royalty these 


406 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


hard times ? ” asked Mrs. Howard. “ I am sure 
every fair mind must feel that would only be an 
act of simple justice.” 

“No, as a rule they have not,” answered her 
husband. “When their own nest’s well feathered 
most men don’t seem to take into consideration 
the stripped nests and lives of others. Did you 
ever think how much easier it is for a poor man to 
enter into the lives of the rich, than for the rich to 
enter into the lives of the poor ? The paradise of 
the one has a natural magnetic power, drawing the 
heart of all mankind towards it ; the hell of the 
other is repellent and has no such attraction. Talk 
about mine owners reducing royalty these hard 
times ! why, there’s a rich man in this very canon 
who* actually charges miners working for him for 
sharpening tools, toll for hauling their bit of ore 
down his road, and five cents for heating their tea 
and coffee.” 

“Is it possible !” exclaimed Mrs. Howard. “How 
can any human being be so cruel } ” 

“Such fellows are hardly human,” John re- 
sponded ; “ they are simply ‘ crushers,’ and look 
upon men as ore to be run through the stamp mill 
of their power.” 

“ I should think they’d be afraid to do such mean 
and cruel things,” Mary said. “I wonder their 
consciences allow them to.” 

“ Conscience presupposes a soul,” was John’s 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


407 


reply, ^^and that they do not possess. They have 
become petrified chips. You couldn’t get a micro- 
scope powerful enough to find the soul of such 
atoms, and their hearts are only blood pumps for 
purposes of circulation. I tell you, until public 
sentiment becomes a pneumatic tube strong enough 
to fire such monstrosities out of the boundaries of 
civilization and make pariahs of them, the world 
will have its anarchists. A legal right may be a 
moral outrage, but the sentiment of the average 
man will ever rebel against such perversion.” 

“Have you noticed,” continued Mary, “how 
differently the men look and act now as they pass 
up and down from what they used to } ” 

“Yes, I have noticed,” answered John. “They 
feel differently. All the holiday spirit has been 
taken out of living, in fact it has become a life 
and death grapple how to live at all. Alongside 
of each miner’s canteen is strapped an invisible 
load of care that weighs him down more than his 
week’s work.” 

“I know,” Mary said softly, her eyes filling, 
“ whenever I speak to a miner these days I always 
feel I must speak tenderly, as to one who had been 
wounded.” 

Just then Marian came in. “ Excuse my inter- 
rupting you, mamma dear,” she said, “but Ada 
Brown has just come up and wants to know if I 
can go berrying with her to-morrow.” 


408 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


*‘Are the berries ripe ? ” asked her mother. 

“ Oh, yes, and she knows of two or three out-of- 
the-way patches that are just loaded down.” 

I’ve no objections to your going,” returned her 
mother; “was beginning to think my store of 
winter preserves would be rather slim this year.” 

“The only danger is,” John said, “you may fall 
over some precipice.” 

“ We’ll be careful, papa, and you know I’m as 
sure-footed as a goat. Ada says the mountains 
this year are covered with miners out berrying, and 
if we don’t go soon there won’t be a raspberry left.” 

“ Do you think it quite safe for the girls to go 
alone .!* ” I asked. 

Mary looked at me in surprise. “ Except for the 
danger of slipping over some steep place,” she said, 
“ I should consider it perfectly so. They go every 
summer as regularly as August comes round, and 
I never knew of their being molested, never heard 
of such a thing.” 

“ There’s no danger I assure you,” interrupted 
Marian, eagerly. “ Papa says there are no mountain 
lions or bears this time of year so near.” 

“I was thinking of two-legged bears,” I answered, 
smiling. 

“ Did you mean the miners ^ ” she asked in open- 
eyed astonishment. “ They wouldn’t hurt us. We 
see lots of them every summer, pass their cabins, 
and they’re always just as kind as they can be, tell 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


409 


US where the best patches are, sometimes show us 
the way.” 

“That’s true,” acknowledged John. “I don’t 
believe there’s an instance on record in this state 
where a girl or woman was ever molested traveling 
over the mountains or up the loneliest gulches.” 

“ How do you account for that } ” I asked. 

“ I don’t account for it, can’t, only it’s a fact, as 
much so as the mountains themselves. The miners 
are a very independent race, won’t stand much 
nonsense from each other, but there seems to be a 
natural chivalry of heart towards all women.” 

“ Well, can I go } ” inquired Marian, impatiently. 
“Ada is waiting to know.” 

Mrs. Howard glanced inquiringly at John. 

“Yes, you can go,” he answered, smiling at her 
eager impetuosity. “ There are more miners out 
prospecting for raspberries this year,” he went on, 
“ than ever was known before, but they’re nearly 
all home boys, and I’d trust them to protect the 
honor of any good girl wherever they met her. 
They may not be polished men of the world, their 
manners and some of their habits maybe objection- 
able, but they are men, not brutes, and where good 
women are concerned they’re gentlemen ; at least 
that has been their record in the past. Times are 
changed and possibly men may change with them, 
but I hope not.” 

The next morning by half -past six the two young 


410 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


girls were ready to start. Very pretty and sweet 
they looked in their pink and blue sun-bonnets and 
calico dresses, the glowing cheeks and blue eyes 
outrivaling the bright colors of their dress. The 
large tin pails swinging on their arms gave them a 
certain housewifely air that added to the charm. 
Gladly would I have escorted them, but receiving 
no invitation was compelled to stay behind. Roland 
not standing on any such ceremony, w^ent along. 

What a fascination this berry picking has for the 
mountain girls and boys of Colorado, and even for 
the boys and girls of older growth. What a rivalry 
exists as to who shaH pick the most ; what a 
picturesque hunt into nature’s secret store-houses 
it is ; what a triumphant home-coming with the 
overflowing pails of ripe red berries, and to the 
artist eye through what a picture-gallery the 
devious wanderings have led. No enthusiastic 
angler or sportsman ever got more happiness from 
a day’s outing, or friends more satisfaction from the 
gathered trophies. These berrying days have all 
the charm of a picnic combined with the honey- 
making instinct of the housewifely bee, getting 
ready its store of sweets for winter’s use. 

Slowly the brief summer glory of the hills deep- 
ened into the more gorgeous glory of the fall. The 
tints of flowers grew more vivid, the crimson and 
gold of autumn’s couriers lit up the edges of the 
sombre pine woods. On the opposite side of the 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


411 


caflon, clothing its rough slope with shaggy beauty, 
stretched a forest. All summer we had noticed 
the dark green of the firs running down the 
mountain side in scallops, a sea of vivid green run- 
ning up to meet and encircle the ragged edges, 
like an ocean filling the bays of a rugged coast. 
Here the change was first visible. The billowy 
surf of verdure became tossing waves of yellow 
leaves, and the dark outlines fringed themselves 
with light. Nature’s loom wove tapestries of 
golden green and orange lichens for the sombre 
rocks. Currant bushes aflame with shining berries 
became jewelled bushes in the sun, hung with 
garnets, gleaming like crystallized drops from the 
luxuriant foliage. From numberless cracks and 
crevices in the rifted hills sprang velvet leaved 
shrubs, bronze green, deep crimson, yellow in 
foliage, and gemmed with small waxy blossoms of 
snowy whiteness. Tiny yellow flowers like stars 
carpeted the ledges in places, beds of lavender 
flowers with golden hearts, bunches of Oregon 
grapes with exquisitely tinted leaves, leather-like 
in texture; juniper bushes with purplish berries 
brightened the solemn beauty of the hills, and lit 
up the dying beauty of the year with fresh splendor. 
Nature held high carnival and garlanded the stern 
visaged mountains in masquerading costume pre- 
paratory to the dreary Lent of winter, while over 
all rested the spell of the Indian summer. 


412 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Many a ramble through nature’s studio did we take 
those dreamy October days, in search of choice bits 
of coloring, dainty leaf studies of the Divine Artist. 
Like Pilgrims in the great art workshops of the Old 
World, picking up gems here and there, we strolled 
through the endless studios of the mountains gath- 
ering decorated chips and leaflets for home treasur- 
ing. In these long excursions Marian and myself 
drew nearer. The old sweet friendship took deeper 
root and blossomed into a more perfect life. 

The events of the last few months had changed 
her. The sweet shy girlhood had developed into a 
more beautiful womanhood. Disappointment nobly 
borne, cheery contentment with present conditions, 
unselfish consideration for others materialized 
daily into loving deeds, the heart experience with 
Charlie, all these had ripened the fine, true nature, 
and in the hand of the all-wise Sculptor had been 
as chisels, shaping into more ideal womanly beauty. 
I had loved her before, I worshiped her now, and 
yet only as some devotee might a saint shrined in 
some far away niche. 

September had brought an invitation from Mrs. 
Hey wood for Marian to spend a couple of months 
in Chicago. She could yet catch a glimpse of the 
Fair and have a gay time besides ; but without a 
moment’s hesitation or consultation the invitation 
was declined. Her reasons were her own, and 
neither father nor mother inquired into them. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


Almost before we knew it the beauty of leaf 
and flower, the magnificent autumn coloring had 
faded from the mountains, and stripped of every 
softening grace they towered around and above 
in all their matchless grandeur and desolation. 
Not more bleak, not more rugged were they than 
the stern reality, the threadbare, poverty stripped 
life surrounding and towering above the inhab- 
itants in the landlocked canon. A nameless, 
crushing fear rested on every heart, and clouds of 
uncertainty shrouded alike the present and the 
future. The long dreary winter stretched ahead 
and men feared to cross its threshold. The age 
of contraction had set in, and no one knew how 
closely the folds of this financial boa-constrictor 
might wind themselves round homes and lives. 
In days gone by the heart of the hills had been 
hard, but at importunate and continuous knocking 
it had opened, and out of the God-filled stores 
within cared for the wants of earth’s needy chil- 
dren. Now that was no longer possible. The 
patient knockers were there, the midnight vigils in 
413 


414 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


the dark mines were still kept up, but even when 
found the coveted treasure had lost its sustaining 
power. 

*‘This is the bluest fall I ever experienced,” 
John said, as we gathered round the fire one 
October evening. *‘You don’t hear much said, but 
there’s a feeling in the community more depress- 
ing than words of complaint would be.” 

Some hot-headed fellows have plenty to say,” 
I remarked, “and their foolish words go broad- 
cast over the land as specimens of miner’s talk 
and feeling in Colorado.” 

“Yes,” answered John, “it is to he regretted 
that such caricatures pass for true pictures. The 
rank and file of miners do not endorse lawless sen- 
timents ; they are condemned here as much as any- 
where. Just see how nobly, how patiently they 
have borne their reverses ; that shows the stuff 
people out West are made of. Talk of a man 
keeping a stiff upper lip, the last three months a 
whole state has done it.” 

“The masses here as elsewhere,” I said, “real- 
ize that there is something radically wrong, but 
that knowledge and the discontent growing out of 
it is not confined to the mining states. Miners 
see a vast industry paralyzed, thousands thrown 
needlessly out of employment, happy homes broken 
up, respectable citizens made paupers, and untold 
misery poured over the country all without good 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


415 


reason. Yet they are not bitterly rebellious, 
although the injustice and needlessness of present 
conditions must rankle like a barbed arrow. The 
wonder to me is that they are not more savage 
than they are.” 

“A great statesman once said,” John continued, 

Tour men might as well try to sleep under one 
blanket as the peoples of the world get along 
with one money metal.’ I saw an article the other 
day from a foreign newspaper on this very subject. 
Did you see it } ” 

“No, I did not.” 

“ As showing the opinion of authorities in the 
Old World it is interesting. Professor Suess, one 
of the greatest living geologists, addressed a 
scientific society in Vienna. He said : ‘With all 
the improved machinery and knowledge of the 
nineteenth century, the production of gold would 
not begin to equal the demand for it so long as 
gold alone was full money, and that that fact pro- 
nounced, or ought to pronounce, sentence of death 
on the gold standard.’ The requirements of indus- 
try, he stated, were becoming greater every year, 
while the production of gold at best was not 
increasing at anything like the same ratio.” 

“ It has increased, though, of late,” I said. 

“Yes,” John acknowledged, “but the best finan- 
cial authorities in Germany, and they are profound 
students of this matter, say that the production of 


416 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


gold cannot maintain itself long at its present out- 
put, that at to-day’s rate of extraction it’s only a 
question of a little time when the gold mines will 
be exhausted. Scientific geologists also state that 
there will be no more surprises in the gold finds of 
the future, that the deposits of both silver and 
gold are known and have been scientifically 
measured.” 

“ Do you believe that can be done.?” I asked. 

“ Approximately, yes ; geologists know exactly 
where these mineral deposits are and the extent of 
them. Surely,” he added, when we know from 
such unquestioned authority that we are rapidly 
using up the world’s last great reserves of gold, it 
would not be wise to found our coinage system 
on a production so inadequate for the world’s 
needs.” 

“ No,” I said, “nor does it seem wise to throw 
discredit on an old, tried friend who has served our 
interests faithfully in the past, when we know that 
before many years we’ll have to fall back on that 
old friend for support.” 

“Professor Suess,” John continued, “ states posi- 
tively that the gold standard cannot last, that we 
must revert to silver. The Prussian Minister of 
Agriculture, Von Hayden, declares officially that 
the low price of silver has a downward influence on 
the level of all prices, and the Financial News of 
London states that the Agricultural Society of 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


417 


France has been discussing the advisability of free 
coinage of silver, and has agreed to a declaration 
that the Latin Union, supported by the United 
States, would be strong enough to impose a mone- 
tary law for the entire world. Such thoughts show 
very conclusively that the silver issue is not a 
local one. Not only prominent scientific societies 
are interested, but nations.” 

‘^What do you think of all this hue and cry 
about a flood of silver inundating the country I 
asked. 

think such a fear entirely groundless,” he 
answered ; nature’s restrictions and the demands 
in the worlds of art and industry will always fur- 
nish an avenue for any extra output of silver, 
besides there’s more likely to be a decrease 
than an increase in the silver output of the 
world. The exceedingly large bodies of rich ore 
that we hear of now and then in Australia and 
elsewhere are only transitory phenomena, — 
pockets in the immense stretches of unproduc- 
tive territory ; besides the yearly production of the 
precious metals as compared with the tremendous 
stock of gold and silver already in circulation, is 
but a drop in the bucket. That amount is es- 
timated to be about twenty billions. There’s 
another factor in the case,” he went on; ‘‘the 
increased and increasing purchasing power of 
gold, brought about by demonetizing silver, has 


418 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


produced a corresponding fall in the price of all 
commodities and products. That in turn has pro- 
duced business stagnation, closed factories and 
paralyzed every industry throughout the land. A 
restoration to the double standard would stop fall- 
ing prices, restore business to its normal state and 
double the demand for money.” 

“Seems to me,” I said, “one of the greatest 
reasons for restoring silver to its old money power 
everywhere is that we would then have a single 
measure of value for the whole civilized world. 
That would simplify commerce. Gold in one 
country, silver in another, introduces an element of 
uncertainty, and cannot long exist in the close na- 
tional relationships of to-day. If the leading com- 
mercial nations would agree on the relative value 
or gold and silver to each other, and adopt the 
bimetallic standard, it would be a world-wide 
blessing.” 

“The trouble would be,” John said, “European 
nations would want to rate silver to gold at its 
present market price, and that would manifestly be 
unfair, because its present price is not a natural 
one, but unquestionably has been brought about 
solely by hostile legislation. When silver began 
to fall the demand for it was greater than the 
supply. Its present low price has been caused 
only by the determined conspiracy of the banks 
and money lenders against it, by unjust coinage 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


419 


laws, and by closing the mints against its 
entrance. Over twenty years ago the small end of 
the wedge was introduced unobserved into the bi- 
metallic plank of the country, and 07te blow at a time 
it has been systematically driven home. No effort 
has been spared all these years to malign the silver 
cause and its mission in the well-being and pro- 
gress of humanity. Concealment of facts, distor- 
tion of history, even, have been resorted to, and it 
would seem often as if newspapers in certain sec- 
tions had combined to shield their readers from 
information.” 

‘‘Well,” was my reply, “conditions current 
everywhere would seem to be a pretty good 
enlightener on the existing financial system, and 
must, one would think, force a conviction of the 
truth on the world at large ; then we will have an 
international agreement on this subject.” 

“But why,” objected John, “wait indefinitely 
for a good thing, for a national blessing, when it 
is not necessary to so wait ? ” 

“You think then,” I rejoined, “that interna- 
tional agreement on this subject is not necessary.” 

“I do not,” John made answer. “When this 
country was a baby almost, apparently not able 
to walk alone, she carried out a much greater 
experiment to a successful issue. Now in the 
strength of her matured powers, with all her 
matchless resources, it is cowardly to suppose she 


420 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


can’t. The people never said such a thing, never 
thought it. Capital and old age are proverbi- 
ally timid, and this heresy sprang from that 
source.” 

“Seems to me,” Mrs. Howard struck in, “we 
could get along very much better without Europe’s 
trade than she could without ours. If she doesn’t 
want to accept our silver in payment for her goods, 
let her refuse to sell.” 

“ TJiat would be the greatest blessing that ever 
befell this country,” John responded. “It would 
stimulate home manufactures, develop our own 
resources and enable us to take care of our own 
poor instead of Europe’s.” 

“And,” I added, “all the silver using countries 
of the world would trade with us. Think of the 
gain there. It would not be very long before Eng- 
land would be knocking at the door, begging to be 
taken back on our own terms.” 

“If all Americans,” John suggested, “would dis- 
criminate in favor of American goods and refuse to 
buy any other, there would soon be a change for the 
better in this country. Supposing the goods, to 
begin with, were not so good ; the principle at 
stake is worth sacrificing a great deal for, and there 
would be more satisfaction in an inferior article 
bought from patriotic motives, than a superior one 
bought from no motive but self -gratification ; be- 
sides the loss would be only temporary. Before 


THE STORY OF A CA^ON. 421 

long American manufacturers would equal if not 
surpass foreign competitors. Be patient with 
crudeness in the developing stage and give home 
industries a chance. The texture of the silks 
and velvets may not be so fine, but if the texture 
of American homes and humanity is improved, and 
the garments of happiness enfold the masses, 
would not the gain be immeasurably greater 
than the loss ? With thousands suffering for the 
necessaries of life, and thousands more tramping 
the country like homeless vagabonds in search of 
work and finding none, does it not seem a disgrace 
to be importing foreign goods and paying for them 
in gold only, when the mountain vaults are full of 
another medium of exchange equally good ^ ” 

“Yes,” I said, “it does, especially when you 
think that by so doing you injure a vast industry 
and add yet another army of unemployed to the 
hordes of hungry men tramping the country. 
When the crying need of the hour is work, — more 
fields to labor in, does it not seem almost suicidal 
to close those we’ve got.?” 

“The troubles resulting from this injury to 
silver,” John went on, “multiply like compound 
interest. The mining industry is the heart which 
supplies life-blood to many others. Farmers all 
through this State, and in other States, suffer with 
the miners. Wheat and silver rise or fall together, 
and farmers in turn affect another circle of de- 


422 


THE STORY OF A CANOH. 


pendents. Merchants everywhere throughout the 
silver sections are crippled and have had to coun- 
termand their orders from the East. Trains are 
empty, only the most necessary freight is being 
hauled in, all luxuries have had to be given up, 
and contraction here means contraction at the 
great centers of trade.” After a few minutes’ 
pause he added, musingly : There’s been a 

tremendous outcry about the folly of making 
America the world’s dumping ground for silver. 
There is a much more serious evil threatening this 
country. She is the dumping ground for all the 
dregs of humanity. How long can any nation 
bear such an incubus } When the United States 
is not able to take care of her own poor, why try to 
look after other peoples ’ } ” 

Just then a burst of sunshine and song entered 
the room. Marian and Marjorie laden with crim- 
son and yellow leaves, the gathered sunshine of 
autumn, came in. Marian was singing gaily, 

“ October gave a party, 

The leaves by hundreds came.” 

“ Excuse me, I didn’t know you were here,” she 
said, apologetically. “ Marjorie and I have been 
off on another pillaging expedition; aren’t these 
beauties ? ” she added, picking up some marvel- 
ously tinted sprays. I am going to try to paint 
them.” 

*‘How happy you look this morning, Marian,” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


423 


exclaimed her father ; “ a very incarnation of 
joy.” 

‘‘I am happy, papa, just as happy as I look,” 
she answered brightly. 

“You don’t regret refusing Mrs. Heywood’s 
invitation to Chicago, then.?” 

“No indeed, I didn’t want to go; I’m quite 
content here. Never spent such a happy fall in 
my life. My not getting away was all for the best 
I know.” Looking at her father wistfully, she 
went on, “ I am more sorry about you having to 
stay home than about myself.” 

“Oh well,” said Mrs. Howard, “there will be 
another exposition bye and bye. Our ship will be 
in by that time and he’ll maybe get to go 
then.” 

“No, Mary,” was the grave answer. “I’ll not 
live long enough for that. Long life is one of the 
lost arts, you know.” 

“Your father and mother lived to a good old 
age,” she responded, “ why shouldn’t you .? They 
were nearly eighty when they died.” 

“Yes,” John acknowledged, “that’s true, but 
life was a simpler experience for them. The 
strain on me has been infinitely greater. At 
best the average miner’s life is a short one.” 

“ Oh, John,” sobbed Mary, putting her arms 
lovingly round his neck, “ don’t talk that way ; if 
you could only rest now you’d be all right. You 


424 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


were meant to be a strong man and to live to a 
good old age.” 

“Yes,” he answered smiling, “guess I was put 
up, as the boys say, for keeps, but Fve had too 
much of the wear and tear of life and not enough 
fixing up when I needed it. The strongest engine 
has to lay by for repairs or she soon becomes 
a wreck.” 

“ Can’t you stop now for repairs ? ” she 
pleaded. 

“Not now, little woman ; couldn’t. Unless my 
mind was at rest stopping work wouldn’t do me 
any good, and anyhow I couldn’t afford it.” 

“ If you had only got the sale through it would 
have been so different,” she murmured. 

“Oh well,” he responded cheerfully, “don’t 
let’s discuss that useless ‘might have been.’ I’ll 
take the best care of myself, do the best I can, 
and maybe we’ll come out of the storm all right 
yet.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Never was there a better illustration of the truth 
of the old saying, Hope deferred maketh the heart 
sick," than during these days. Every morning 
fresh hopes were born only to die gradually as the 
day’s news came in, and be buried with the receipt 
of the evening’s mail. Many a strong man grew 
more than heart-sick — life-sick, at the long drawn 
out suspense. Four months on a movable rack is 
not an experience to be desired. 

At last in November came the end, — uncondi- 
tional repeal of the Sherman act. East, joy bells 
pealed from every golden turret. An era of good 
times on paper was ushered in, and the people were 
called on to rejoice, for the day of calamity had 
passed. Over a vast area the same bell at the 
same time was tolling the doom of many a happy 
home and prospect. How to keep out of debt, off 
the country and not starve, was the problem of 
the hour. For every idle pick there were twenty 
willing hands, and the only alternative was the hit 
or miss lease. 

John had said all along that he did not expect 

425 


426 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


favorable legislation, but all the same we could see 
that the news was a painful disappointment. He 
seemed more discouraged, the sadness in the patient 
face deepened, and the large frame had a tired, 
hopeless droop that went to our hearts. The screw 
of hard times was beginning to be felt in his affairs, 
in his household even, and the pain of the pressure 
was showing all too plainly in the whitening lips 
and hair of the noble head. Gladly would I have 
assisted him to my last dollar if necessary,, but the 
proud, independent nature was ever jealously on the 
watch against help, no matter how skillfully offered. 
As he said once, he was built that way. Had John 
Howard been alone, without a cent, unable to earn 
one, he would have met his fellow-men day by day 
with a brave smile, till one day they would have 
found him dead from starvation, the firm lips not 
more securely sealed by death from complaint 
making than they had been in life by his own will. 
But what he could bear for himself he could not 
for his family, and I could see the contraction in 
his household was killing him. Bravely did Mrs. 
Howard and Marian try by skillful management to 
cover up deficiencies, but eyes like John Howard’s, 
when sharpened by love, pierce through all 
disguises. 

The snows of winter fell softly at last on and 
around our canon ; the magnificent distances filled 
with white frozen mist ; the solemn grandeur of 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


427 


the hills spiritualized into more ethereal beauty ; 
summer’s jewelled bushes exchanged the golden 
green of autumn for the eider-down of winter ; sur- 
pliced firs stood around with cushions of white in 
their spreading branches ; leafless trees, in soft 
clinging draperies, clung spectral-like to the steep 
slopes ; harsh outlines vanished. Precipitous mount- 
ains towered above us, unchanged in outline, yet 
each seam and fold in their rugged brown faces 
inlaid with drifts of powdered snow, fringes of 
glittering icicles bearding the pointed rocks. 
Beautiful indeed was the great snow-hung corridor, 
its feathery draperies of dazzling whiteness caught 
here and there with crystalline diamonds. 

Twice a day the fu^sy, panting engine wove in 
and out, carrying threads of intercourse between 
us and the outside world, waking the echoes of the 
hills with its wild whistle. Otherwise the stillness 
was unbroken. Yet compensation in our lonely 
shut-in life was not lacking. The very sense of isola- 
tion drew us closer, made us conscious of the great 
brotherhood of humanity. Some one has said, 
“ villages are family groups ! ” In winter this truth 
became more real ; the groups mingled more freely 
and were as one family. 

Many a gay good time in days gone by had the 
miners enjoyed through the long winter months. 
Coasting parties, sleigh rides by moonlight, social 
gatherings had brightened the long evenings, and 


428 THE STORY OF A CANON. 

made the exile more bearable. This year the 
difference in social conditions was as great as 
between a day in June and a day in January, and 
except among the very young merry making was 
an impossible luxury. Particularly as the holiday 
time neared was the change noticeable. The 
empty stores, the stacks of unbought toys told 
their own story. 

“ What shall we do about Christmas this year, 
Philip } ” asked Mary one evening as we sat alone 
in the parlor. 

What do you mean, Mary 

“Just this,” she answered bravely. “I haven’t 
money to buy anything for anybody, and John 
don’t want me to run in debt unless for actual 
necessaries, yet I’m not willing to pass the day 
without some celebration. We’ve always managed 
to have such a happy time Christmas before.” 

“You know, Mary,” I began hesitatingly, “how 
glad I’d be to help you if you’d only let me.” 

“ I thought,” she answered gently, “ that matter 
of help was thoroughly understood between us. If 
I had not I should not have asked your advice 
now. I have been wondering,” she went on, 
“ whether we could not have a Christmas tree. It 
could be got and made to look bright and pretty at 
no expense. For years I have kept the decorations, 
and even if there are not many presents on the tree, 
the sight of the decorated branches will do us good.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


429 


So it was arranged. Christmas trees were free 
for the choosing, and next day Marian, Harry and 
myself scaled the mountain fastnesses in search of 
a perfect specimen. On the lower levels we passed 
a dozen or more out on a similar hunt, but the 
higher mountain shelves were as yet deserted. 

Oh, the unutterable sacredness of those pine 
woods, the sweetness of the hush brooding every- 
where, the twilight filling the green depths, im- 
pressing one more than the dim religious light in 
any cathedral. Overhead an invisible breath made 
musical murmur among the swaying pines, around 
the stillness was broken only by the slide of some 
snow-drift off an overladen branch, or the whirr of 
the startled birds. At our feet the snowy pave- 
ment was starred and lined with endless tracings, 
the imprints of countless feathery wanderers. 

Late in the afternoon we returned, bearing in 
our hands a beautiful tree, in our hearts a more 
beautiful memory. Far in the distance sun-illu- 
mined, snow-capped peaks and ranges gleamed 
pink as the heart of a sea-shell, while in the 
shadow pinnacles and bowlders seemed trans- 
formed to solid white marble. 

Christmas eve the tree arrayed in the resurrected 
finery of former years stood ready to receive its 
guests. The decoration had been a labor of love, 
and when completed, in children’s eyes, was a work 
of art. Skillful, loving hands had made up for lack 


430 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


of funds> and each one was remembered with some 
pretty gift. Marjorie had been particularly fortu- 
nate, and her little heart kept in a state of delighted 
surprise at her many remembrances. According 
to Mrs. Howard’s wish on all such occasions, each 
gift had the name of the giver attached, so the 
kind friends were no secret. 

Suddenly, to our surprise, Marjorie burst into 
tears. 

‘‘What’s the matter with my little pet.?” John 
said, drawing her tenderly to his side. “Is she 
sick .? ” 

“No,” she sobbed, “not sick.” 

“What then.?” 

For a long time she resisted every effort to 
draw her secret out ; at last with a fresh burst of 
tears, she exclaimed reproachfully : “ Oh, papa, you 
never gave mamma or Marian anything to-night ; 
only me. Did you forget .? ” 

A look of pain crossed John’s face. “ No, 
Marjorie, I didn’t forget.” 

“ Why didn’t you buy something for everybody 
then .? ” she asked, wistfully. 

“ Mamma didn’t want anything,” he said 
evasively, “and I didn’t know what everybody 
wanted.” 

Mary understood the position intuitively and her 
eyes filled. 

Casting one swift glance at her mother, Marjorie 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


431 


went on: ^‘Yes, mamma did care. You’ve hurt 
her. She looks ready to cry now.” 

Bending down John gathered the child in his 
arms, resting her rosy cheek lovingly against his 
own. “ Papa wanted to all right, baby, but he 
couldn’t this year. Will you forgive papa 
Yes, if you couldn’t help it.” 

For a moment he held her thus, softly kissing 
the head as it lay on his broad chest, then suddenly 
excusing himself on the plea of having a smoke, 
left the room. Bye and bye we heard the kitchen 
door open and knew he had gone out. 

Next day John did not go to the mine. Mary 
said he had not slept, did not feel well, and she 
had persuaded him to stay at home. 

It was a beautiful day ; around were the snowy 
shapes of winter, but overhead were the blue skies 
and warm sun of Colorado. Late in the forenoon 
we missed John. After a little search I found him ^ 
sitting among the rocks, apparently sunning him- 
self. Nearer approach, however, showed him to be 
ill — suffering. 

‘‘What’s the matter.?” I asked in alarm ; “we 
did not know you were sick.” 

“Don’t tell Mary,” were his first words, “ it will 
pass away.” 

‘* What’s the trouble .? ” 

“ Heart, I’m afraid. Phil, old boy,” he whispered, 
and the great drops of agony stood on his forehead. 


432 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


I can’t stand this much longer. It’s killing me. 
I was so near making a success at last, it seems 
hard to fail so utterly.” 

Shan’t I go for the doctor, John } ” 

‘^No, he couldn’t do me any good. I went to 
him myself some weeks ago. He gave me a 
prescription.” 

'^‘Have you had it filled.? Is it in the house.?” 
I inquired eagerly. 

*‘No. I’ve not had it filled,” he answered. 

Couldn’t take it.” 

Why not.?” 

^'Couldn’t afford it.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” I exclaimed, “ what was it .? 
What could it be that was too costly to save a 
human life .? ” 

“ Perfect rest, freedom from worry and change 
to a lower level,” he answered calmly. “Hard for 
a miner to have such a prescription filled these 
days. Don’t be worried, Phil, I feel better now.” 
After a little he went on : “ Marjorie’s innocent 
words of reproach last night stuck like knives 
into my heart. Can’t pull them out. Her ques- 
tions were simple enough, but the answer I was 
obliged to give was what hurt. That was what 
gave them point, not with regard to Christmas 
presents only, but in view of the actual living 
wants of to-morrow. If times don’t change it 
won’t be long before I can’t buy anything. Be- 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


433 


fore Christmas I sent down a lot of nice looking 
ore, thought I’d have a run and be able to brighten 
up the holidays with a little ready cash. After 
paying all expenses what do you suppose I had 
left.?” 

** Couldn’t guess,” I said. 

“Just three dollars and a half.” 

“Is that so,” I said; “that is discouraging, 
sure.” 

“ I don’t know where to turn to,” he continued ; 
“there seems to be nothing for me to do, and now 
my health is giving way. I tell you what, Phil, 
disappointment shortens a fellow’s life more than 
sickness. Mine has been harder on me than a 
run of fever.” 

“ Can’t you borrow enough money to get away 
on for awhile .? ” I asked. 

“ No, not at present. All I’ve got is in the 
ground or on the dump, and there’s no market. 
Banks fight shy of such securities.” 

“ There’s the house,” I suggested. “ You might 
put a mortgage on that.” 

“Put a mortgage on the home,” he said, almost 
fiercely. “I’d put a ball through my head first. 
Give anybody the chance to turn my family out 
doors.? Oh no, never! I know too much about 
these Christian Shylocks, these money lenders, 
ever to put those I love in their power.” 

->^“John,” I said, “my dear old John, don’t talk 


434 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


so; don’t feel so. You know whatever is mine is 
yours. You or yours will never want as long as 
my purse has a dollar in it.” 

‘‘ I believe you, Phil, but I couldn’t live on 
charity, even a friend’s. I’ve always been self- 
sustaining ever since I was a boy of fifteen, and 
when I can no longer be so, when I can no longer 
work and keep my family, I hope the end will not 
be far off.” 

“Don’t say that,” I begged. “The world 
wouldn’t be the same to any of us if you were 
not in it. How could Mary live without you, or 
the children either ? It would be like blotting out 
the very light of life for them.” 

“No,” he murmured, “they would be better off 
without me. Living I would only add to their 
burdens ; if I were dead they would be all right. 
My life is insured, you know.” Looking around 
with a sad smile at the mountains, he added : “ I 
sometimes think we’re like the man in the 
^Ancient Mariner,’ with 

‘ Water, water everywhere, 

But not a drop to drink.’ 

We can see money, money, on every hand, but not 
enough to keep in life. Well, let’s go in, and 
don’t say anything to Mary.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


That night it snowed again. In the morning 
landmarks had disappeared ; strange, unfamiliar 
shapes in phantom garments loomed from every 
rocky hill and plateau. Rugged mountain sides 
were sloping fields of billowy, shining whiteness, 
domed with exquisite gray clouds, edged and per- 
meated with golden haze. Everywhere an ex- 
pectant silence brooded ; one almost looked to 
see the shifting curtain overhead part and reveal 
the mighty enchanter. 

“ How would you like to take a sleigh ride I 
asked Marian after breakfast. Her face became 
radiant. 

How would I like it ” she said, enthusiast- 
ically. “ I haven’t words to tell you how much 
Fd like it.” 

'' Well, be ready in half an hour and Fll be back 
with the sleigh.” 

She was all ready at the gate waiting when I 
drove up, the sweet, glowing face and shining 
eyes framed in some fleecy headgear. 

‘^Are you well bundled up ” I asked, “the air 
is very keen.” 


436 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


‘*0h yes, mamma made me put on ever so 
many wraps. How handsome Pete looks this 
morning,” she went on, looking admiringly at the 
horse; ‘‘his coat is like black satin.” 

“He feels as good as he looks,” I said, “can 
hardly keep his feet on the ground. Will you be 
afraid to ride after him ” 

“Not with you for a driver,” was the smiling 
answer. 

Something in the look as she spoke set my 
pulses throbbing wildly. I could hear their beat 
in my brain distinct as the blows of a trip-ham- 
mer, but for the moment the frisky horse claimed 
all attention. Scarcely was Marian seated and the 
taut lines loosened than with a rearing plunge he 
sprang forward. Along the narrow shelf of drifted 
road we flew, the sheeted rocks gliding past like 
spectres, the sleigh rising and falling boat-like 
over the uneven surface, showers of snowy 
sparks flying in our faces from the quick, mov- 
ing heels. 

By the time the bottom of the canon was 
reached, — a long race track lay ahead, — Pete had 
settled down to business . and I had a chance to 
think of mine. 

“So you’re not afraid to trust yourself to my 
guidance,” I said, looking keenly at her. 

The color deepened as she answered with shy 
sweetness: “No, I feel perfectly safe with you.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


437 


“Weren’t you afraid as we came down the hill 
just now ? afraid Pete might get away ? ” 

“No, I felt you were able to take care of us 
both, — you could guide us;” and she glanced up 
in my face with a look of loving trust that nearly 
made me drop the reins. Something she saw 
there must have startled the girlish heart more 
than the wild race down the mountain side, for 
with a low cry she stretched both hands towards 
the reins, saying nervously : “ Oh, Philip, Pete is 
going so quietly now don’t you think I could 
drive him } ” 

“ Perhaps, would you like to try ? ” 

“Yes, very much ; may I ? ” 

Nodding consent, she slipped her hands under 
mine to grasp the reins. Quick as thought my 
own closed over them. 

“ Now, sweetheart, tell me what that look 
meant } Nay, don’t withdraw your hands. Re- 
member I’m not holding Pete, you are ; I’m only 
holding you. He might get away if you drop the 
lines.” 

It was a pretty sight. The fine, high-bred face 
watching the thorough-bred horse and blushing in 
rosy confusion at this bold intrusion into her 
maiden secrets. Biting her lips with pretty em- 
barrassed annoyance, she said: “You’ve caught 
me in a nice trap and now you take advantage of 
my position to tease me.” 


438 the story OF A CANON, 

** Answer my question and I’ll let you out of 
the trap,” I retorted, laughing. 

*^What question.-*” she asked, evasively. 

“ What did that look mean ^ ” 

How can I tell ? I didn’t see it,” was the 
saucy answer. 

“ Who’s teasing now ? ” I inquired. 

“ Philip,” she said, “ if you don’t take these 
reins. I’ll drop them.” 

“ I will in a moment.” Lifting one hand off 
her’s I put my left arm round the slender form 
and drew her closer. “Just one more question and 
I’ll let you out of the confessional. Are you willing 
to trust yourself to me to guide and take care of 
through all time ? ” 

“Yes, if you want me to,” she murmured softly. 

“And this is my wife, the wife I’ve been wait- 
ing for all these long years ” 

“ I expect it is, if you want her,” she said 
demurely. 

Bending down, for the first time in my life I 
kissed her on the full, red lips. That sealed the 
contract. As truly as if the minister had already 
pronounced us one, I knew that she was mine. 

“ Philip, I shall go wild if you don’t take the 
reins,” she pleaded. 

“ Look at me once, sweetheart, and I will.” 

“You told me to watch the horse’s ears,” she 
retorted willfully, “ I must obey orders.” 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


439 


** I tell you now to look at me,” I insisted. 

The beautiful eyes, filled with unutterable love, 
turned for one swift instant towards me and I was 
satisfied. 

Was the rest of that morning’s drive only a 
simple, happy ride over the shining snow with the 
musical clang and jingle of sleigh-bells in our ears, 
or through unseen portals did we glide into an 
Elysium where old things were transfigured and 
new beautiful ones begun.? From our changed 
stand-point familiar objects stood out in a white 
light of new meaning; unknown regions, unsus- 
pected feelings drifted down upon us, vaguely out- 
lined in a mist of delicious mystery and fascination. 

Pete’s conclusions on the matter will probably 
never be known, but evidently they were definite, 
for he took the responsibility of the home trip 
upon himself. Pulling himself down to a swift, 
regular trot, and keeping the middle of the track, 
he swung round corners as gently as if controlled 
by human intelligence. 

As I lifted Marian out at the gate of Rest-A- 
While,” I kept her long enough to ask, And you 
have no misgivings .? ” 

“None,” she answered confidently, a look of 
perfect trust shining in her honest eyes. 

“ You are sure it is not as you once hinted, any 
undue personal infiuence on my part that has 
decided you ? ” 


440 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


“ No ; if you were at the other side of the globe, 
and wrote saying come, I should go, and if you 
never wrote I should wait alone to the end. 
Every other man would be shadowy always.” 

Fastening Pete to the hitching post we pro- 
ceeded in-doors. Mrs. Howard let us in, and the 
moment her eyes rested on us she seemed to read 
our secret. Holding out a hand to each she said 
warmly, I congratulate you both.” Drawing 
Marian closer she kissed her, while a few tears 
sparkled and fell even through the smiles. 

“ How did you know, mamma ? ” 

Saw it written in your faces, dear.” 

**Are you satisfied.?” I inquired. 

Perfectly so. You were made for each other. 
I’ve only been afraid you wouldn’t find it out till 
too late. Course of true love, you know, — ” 

“Where is John ? ” I asked. 

“In the kitchen reading.” 

Marian hung shyly back. “You go on, Philip, 
and tell papa. I’ll come bye and bye.” 

“Oh no,” I said, laughing, “this is a partner- 
ship concern ; you come along too. We’ll face 
the music together.” 

Drawing her arm through mine we followed 
Mary. 

“John, here are some strangers wishing to see 
you,” his wife announced. 

He looked up from the paper in surprise. Our 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


441 


secret must have been an open one, for his first 
words were : “Well, well, who’d have thought it.” 

“ I’ve stolen your daughter, John,” I said, as we 
halted beside him. 

“ Ain’t married yet, are you .? ” he asked 
roguishly. 

“ Hardly, but if you don’t object, we soon shall 
be.” 

“ Oh Philip,” Marian began, with an air of 
pretty embarrassment, and as if shocked at my 
audacity. Glancing up at her father’s face she 
met his eye bent on her with loving thoughtful- 
ness, and stopped. He held out his arms, and like 
some happy bird she nestled in them. 

“ So my little girl wants to leave me.” 

“ No, papa, never ; only bring some one you 
already love closer,” and she stretched out a hand 
to me. 

“ That’s all right, Marian>” he said, stroking her 
hair softly. “ I suppose I’d have to give you up 
some day, and I’d rather give you up to Phil than 
to any other man I know.” 

“You’re willing to trust her to me, John ? ” 

“I’m willing. I’ve known you boy and man a 
good many years, and you’re a safe man for any 
woman to tie to.” 

“ I thought perhaps you might think me too old.” 

“ If Marian don’t think so I’ve no call to com- 
plain on that score,” he said. “ That’s her busi- 


442 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


ness. You may be a few years older, but you were 
born in the same century, and that’s more than a 
great many couples can say.” 

“What do you mean, papa.?” asked Marian, 
looking mystified. 

“ A good many men, otherwise nineteenth cen- 
tury men, where women are concerned belong to 
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and if 
a modern woman marries one of these back num- 
bers there’s apt to be trouble.. Charlie Hey wood 
was one of them. Marian is a twentieth century 
woman, and if she had married him there would 
have been no end of friction. To keep peace she 
would either have had to go back a century in her 
ideas, or hide them.” 

“ I wonder if that isn’t the reason,” interrupted 
Mrs. Howard, “ why some men are so opposed to 
women suffrage. They are living in one century, 
while in taste and feeling they belong to another.” 

“Yes, that’s probably one reason,” acknowl- 
edged John; “the world moves from its old 
camping ground of thought and custom, and 
they don’t.” Turning to Marian and myself he 
added : “ Each soul keeps time to the music it 
hears. You two hear the same music and will 
keep pretty good step.” 

That night Marian and I lingered long at the 
eastern window watching the still spiritual beauty 
of the encircling hills, glistening in the snow and 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


443 


moonlight. The spell of the beautiful night 
rested alike on canon and spirit. The infinite 
meaning and mystery of life took hold of us. 
Were we made for each other as Mary had said } 
Our hearts softly echoed yes, and out of the 
starry depths above a benediction seemed to 
float down, enflolding us with sacred, solemn 
sweetness. The new tie was God’s gift. We 
could feel the Father’s hand drawing us, not only 
closer to each other but closer to Himself, — 
could feel also that so it would ever be. 

“ I am going to Denver to-morrow, sweetheart,” 
I said, taking the slender left hand in mine and 
caressing the long fingers. 

*‘Yes.?” 

The large, soft eyes turned interrogatively 
towards me. 

“When I return I shall bring your ring, the 
first golden fetter in your chain. Have you any 
objections ? A little bird whispered to me once 
that you had refused a similar offer not long 
ago.” 

She shuddered slightly. “This time I have 
no objection,” she murmured, with a happy 
smile. 

“ I shan’t be as generous as Charlie, bring you 
two or three to choose from. I shall choose 
my own form of fetter and expect you to be 
satisfied.” 


444 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


That will please me much better,” she an- 
swered ; ‘^will seem more like your gift then.” 

This time,” I went on, ‘‘ I shall bring 
you a diamond ring ; but before long I shall 
want to put another beside it. When can that 
be ? ” 

“ Papa said once he should insist on a year’s 
engagement.” 

** Papa won’t insist on that length of time with 
me. Will you } ” 

She was silent. 

Listen, darling ; in three months I expect to 
leave here. Shall I have to go alone ” 

“ How long will you be gone } ” 

“Indefinitely. I have accepted a position in 
another State. Must go by the first of April.” 
Lower drooped the head, unconsciously she 
nestled closer, but no words came. 

“The most beautiful love song, Marian, that 
human lips ever uttered was uttered by one 
woman to another ; can you listen to its pas- 
sionate refrain from the lips of the man you 
love and not be moved ^ ‘ Entreat me not to 

leave thee, or to return from following after 
thee ; for where thou goest I will go, and 
where thou lodgest I will lodge.’ ” 

Putting out both hands as if to push me away, 
she burst out : “ Don’t, Philip, don’t. The pas- 
sionate pleading in your voice breaks my heart. 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


445 


but I could not leave papa and mamma these hard 
times. Do not ask me.” 

I do not ask you, darling. When we go and 
where, they shall go too. ‘ Thy people shall be my 
people, as their God is my God.’” 

** Then I will go with you,” she murmured 
softly. ** I cannot let you leave me unless God 
should take you away.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A month rolled away. Nearer to the gunwale 
sank the mining industry. Like sailors to a sink- j 
ing ship miners clung to their old life and homes, 
loath to embark on a new untried sea of uncer-l 
tainty. Many compelled at length by cruel neces- 
sity, loosened their hold and drifted to unknown 
regions in search of employment. Others volun- 
tarily let go and steered for some golden port of 
better hopes. Every week three or four went out 
with the tide, in most cases only to swell the num- 
berless wrecks scattered over the ocean of 
humanity, surging everywhere. Occasionally they 
returned worse off than when they left, and sad 
tales of castaways stranded without money or 
friends in distant places, reached us. 

The few gold camps were overcrowded, and in 
the dead of winter respectable, industrious men, 
clamorous for work, were without beds to lie on or 
food to eat. Legislation had first made homeless 
vagabonds of the willing-handed miners, now in 
other states it arrested and punished them for its 
own folly. They were but a product, as most 

446 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


447 


tramps are, innocent of every crime except that of 
being workless, homeless, hungry, yet they were 
shunned like mad dogs and treated by civilized 
Christian states as pariahs and outcasts in heathen 
India. 

All the general misery and injustice seemed to 
take hold of John in a painful way. The ^Eolian 
harp of humanity, smitten by the winds of misery 
and want, wailed mournfully through the large, 
tender heart. He seemed somehow to have lost 
his grip on some sustaining life principle, and with 
growing fear we watched him. 

One day late in January as I sat in my room 
reading, there came a quick, imperative rap. 
Without even waiting for the usual response Mrs. 
Howard opened the door. A glance at the white, 
frightened face brought me to my feet. “ What’s 
the matter, Mary ? ” 

“John is very ill. Will you go for the doctor V* 

“What seems wrong.?” I asked. 

“ I don’t know. He walked into the kitchen a 
few minutes ago from the mine looking awfully sick. 
He couldn’t speak, just waved his hand feebly and 
staggered into the little bed-room. By the time I 
had reached him he had fallen on the bed.” 

“What did he say ? ” 

Mary choked convulsively. “He couldn’t say 
anything, he had fainted. John never did that in 
his life.” 


448 ' 


THE STORY OF A CANON, 


With a sudden terror at my heart I rushed down 
stairs. He still lay unconscious, but a feeble pulse 
fluttered at the wrist. Fortunately the doctor was 
not hard to find. 

In ten minutes we were back. John still lay on 
the bed, but he was conscious and greeted us with 
his usual gentle courtesy. The kindly old doctor 
bent over and examined him. A few minutes’ 
breathless suspense and we knew the worst. 

Is he very sick, doctor } ” asked Mary anxiously. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Howard, he’s a very sick man,*^’ was 
the grave answer, concern and sympathy shining 
out of his kind eyes as he spoke. 

John looked at him keenly. How long can I 
live, doctor.?” he asked. Tell me the truth.” 

“Not more than an hour, perhaps not that.” 

With a wild bitter cry of agony Mary flung her- 
self on her knees beside the bed, and threw both 
hands over her husband as if to protect him from 
some unseen foe. “ Oh, doctor, you don’t mean 
that ! ” she sobbed, the tempest of grief shaking 
the frail form as a wild storm would a leaf. “ Can’t 
you do something, — give him something.?” 

John put one arm soothingly around her. “Hush, 
Mary, hush,” he said solemnly. “ Don’t cry dear- 
est, there’s no time now for tears.” 

The mild reproof stayed her sobs. 

“ Good-bye, doctor,” he went on, “ if I’ve got to 
go next train we won’t meet again.” They shook 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


449 


hands, large tears dropping from the doctor’s eyes 
on their clasped fingers. 

I’d stay, John, if I could help you, you know 
that.” 

John nodded. *^Well, you can’t, and I’d rather 
you’d go,” — glancing meaningly at his wife, — we 
want to talk.” Turning to me he added, **find 
the children if you can. Mary says they’re out.” 

Where are they ? ” I inquired, 

“ Harry’ll be home from school soon,” answered 
Mrs. Howard ; “ never mind about him, but — 
Marian and Marjorie are out walking, try and get 
them. I don’t know where they went.” 

As I left the room I paused on the threshold 
and looked back. John’s eyes, those kind, true 
eyes were following me. All the old time affection 
glistened in them, and the light of triumphant 
immortality was in the beautiful spirit so plainly 
visible back of them. In their wistful depths I 
read farewell, but not daring to speak or linger I 
hurried off in search of Marian. Half an hour’s 
fruitless wandering failed to discover their where- 
abouts, and hoping they might have missed me and 
already reached home, I returned. A strange 
stillness filled the house. Surely they could not 
have got back. 

At the door of the bed-room I paused. John lay 
as if asleep and Mary knelt beside him, as still as 
the quiet form on the bed. Not a sob shook her 


450 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


frame, and for a moment I wondered if the angel of 
death in my absence had taken both in his keeping. 
At the sound of my footstep she stirred, arose, and 
came towards me. Never have I seen such a look 
on a human face. Its calmness was unearthly, its 
peace divine. Words froze on my lips, almost I 
feared for her reason. 

Yes, he is gone,” she said solemnly, in answer 
to my look, and her eyes had a far-away expression 
as if her own spirit had gone too. Seeing my 
startled look she added calmly ; “ Do not fear for 
me. Each soul must enter its own Gethsemane 
sooner or later. I have entered mine, but One 
was with me who has taken away the sting of its 
agonies. I have always believed in a loving 
Saviour, to-day He has been here. Where are the 
children ? ” 

“ Couldn’t find them.” 

“Just as well. Their grief would only have 
pained him needlessly. As it was we went down 
to the very edge together, and as peacefully as one 
setting sail with a friend on a summer’s eve, he 
drifted out of my arms to the shores of the un- 
known.” 

“ Can you bear to tell me about it } ” I asked, 
hesitatingly. 

“Can I bear.? ” she said, with a look of wonder, 
— “is there anything else I could bear to talk 
about.? John is not dead, only gone on a little 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


451 


ahead of us. When my work is done I shall go 
to him. Meanwhile the everlasting arms are 
around us both.” 

Was he conscious to the last ? ” 

“ Yes, to the last. After you left he motioned 
me to lie down on the bed beside him, and putting 
both arms around me held me with as strong a 
grasp as he ever did in his life. ^Only a few 
minutes to say good-bye in, dear wife,’ he whispered. 
‘ We must think fast. It may be a few years be- 
fore we meet, but it won’t seem long, I fancy.’ 
Then he went back to our first meeting, spoke of 
the many happy hours we had spent together, 
referred to different scenes that stood out in his 
memory, spoke also of my future and the comfort 
it was to leave me in your care. Suddenly he 
stopped. The large eyes filled with a wondering 
awe as if he saw something that stirred him 
strangely.” 

“What is it, John } ” I asked. 

Still he looked but said nothing. An expres- 
sion of ineffable peace stole over his face. 

“ Did you see anything, Mary ” I inquired. 

“ No. Mountain peaks catch the glory of the 
dawn before the valleys. John was higher up the 
hills of life than I was. 'Is it all right, John .?’ I 
whispered. ' All right, Mary. Satisfied, he mur- 
mured, then still gazing at that unseen vision he 
said slowly : ' I shall be satisfied when I awake with 


452 


THE STORY OF A CANON. 


Thy likeness.’ Turning to me with a look of love 
intenser than any life had ever kindled, he went 
on : ^ Good-bye, dear wife, — for a little. I’ll be 
waiting.’ Another moment and his spirit had 
gone, but the room was filled with that strange 
presence.” 

The blessed earthly personality had indeed be- 
come a blessed memory, but we had not lost him. 
Beyond the power of all words to express was 
the sense of eternal possession, and the inspira- 
tion that had ever emanated from the noble, 
honest, unselfish nature in life, we knew would 
still walk ahead of those who had loved him. 
Death could not touch such a being, — only greater, 
fuller life without earth’s limitations. Down the 
swift flowing estuary of time he had slipped to the 
ocean of eternity, “passing death in the dying,” 
but “ where loyal hearts and true ” stood ever in 
immortal light we knew John Howard was, knew 
also that some day borne outward on the same 
great tide, we should “cross the bar” and see him 
face to face. 






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